Some of my memories have to do with a light burning in a window.
As we enter the holidays I believe many of us are drawn to remembering our pasts. We set around the table following a grand meal and think about those who are no longer with us. Sentences will begin with “You remember when...” or “I remember a time when...” Then we share the stories; stories that we’ve all heard before but never tire of hearing again.
My name for my grandmother was “Nannie.” It was what everyone called her. If she were still living, Nannie would have been 99 this past Monday. She was born while Woodrow Wilson was president. This was a time before we knew what World War was, before there was a League of Nations and before women had the right to vote. She was a little less than a month away from her 16th birthday when the market crashed and the country entered the Great Depression.
Chicken and Dumplings. That was Nannie’s recipe. No one made Chicken and Dumplings the way she did. People have come close, but they are just not the same. She was also very good with Cornbread Stuffing. It was all about the proper amount of sage to include.
My grandmother was a kind, soft-spoken lady. But she also knew how to make her displeasure known when it was appropriate and deserved. One such time was in 1972. Actually there were a few times from that year, but I’ll only write about this one.
I spent my Freshman year in high school living with my grandparents. That would be the 1971-72 school year. It was a wonderful year. One Sunday afternoon in the Spring of ’72, my friend Stephen Rogers and I were out doing what we did most weekends. We were out on our bikes, exploring.
Not far from Stephen’s house were a few new houses being built. The foundations had been dug but not a lot more had been done. The rains from a few days earlier had slowed the progress. Stephen and I set there, on our bikes, at the edge of this hollowed out foundation. Some of the rain had collected into a rather nice pond in this hole.
We didn’t have many ponds in Sikeston so this new pond was inviting. It posed a new challenge. We thought. If you were to drop off into the foundation, how slow could you actually go, peddling your bike, to remain upright? This meant that you had to slow your speed once inside the hole in order to test the question. This also meant that the slower your speed, the higher the probability of slipping into the pond.
Stephen and I took up the question and spent the better part of an hour riding along the slope of the foundation, and yes, on occasion, slipping into the pond. The extremely muddy pond.
We heard his mom calling. It was time to get ready for Sunday evening church. We said our “See you in little whiles” and went home; he to his house and me, the 10 minutes or so to my grandparents house. The bike ride would help dry out my clothes.
When I got to my grandparents I was a surprised at the reception I received. My usually kind, soft-spoken Nannie was livid! “Where had you been? What have you been doing? How did you get so dirty?” All good questions. I answered. “I was over at Stephen’s. We were riding our bikes. And there was this construction site you see and there was this big hole in the ground where they were digging the foundation and there was water in the hole from the rain we got a few days ago. Well, anyway, we were trying to see how slow...” You get the picture.
What I haven’t told you is this. When I got home from church that morning and wolfed down my lunch, I ran out the door and headed off to Stephen’s forgetting one thing. I forgot to change clothes. I went riding, in the mud, in my Sunday church clothes. She was more than a little upset. Looking back, I really can’t blame her. But, kid’s will be kid’s.
During the last years of her life, she along with my mother, lived in the house behind mine. She had the back corner bedroom and in the corner, between two windows set a rocker. This is where she would spend a good amount of her time. She set in her rocker and she would read. She was a ferocious reader.
Some evenings when I would be getting something from the kitchen, I’d pause by the back door and look out across the yard. There in back corner of my mom’s house would be the light burning and I knew it was my Nannie, reading. There would always be a smile on my face when I turned away from the door.
I often think how wonderful it would have been to have had Nannie write down some of her memories. There was so much she experienced. There was so much she knew. Every day she lived shaped the lady she became. It strengthened her and molded her. Now these stories live only in our faltering memories.
I once knew a woman who knew she was dying of cancer. She set up a video camera in her kitchen one evening and taped herself. She sat at her table and shared her recipes; the ones that had become her daughter’s favorites. She included the little this and thats, the nuances, that only the cook knows. The things that aren’t written down.
What I do here is much the same. It’s a place to share my thoughts, my dreams and some of the stories of my life. It is my small contribution to the tapestry that is our families history. It is for a time, many years from now, when my grandchildren will be setting around the holiday dinner table with their children and grandchildren. Devon or Shelby will push their plate away and begin, “You remember that time when Papa got in so much trouble with Nannie?”
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Some evenings now I’ll be getting something from the kitchen and I’ll pause by the back door and look out across the yard. There in back corner of my mom’s house a light will be burning and I know it is my Mom reading. Perhaps she is writing some of her stories. There is a smile on my face when I turn away from the door.
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