I Remember Aunt Grace

I remember Aunt Grace as perfect and expecting everyone else to be so too.

I remember Aunt Grace as always knowing the proper order to iron a blouse. She would always tell me what the proper order was. I forget what that order was, because I thought that if I ever needed to know I could ask Aunt Grace.

When I was a little girl, Aunt Grace used to sleep with me in the old farmhouse when she came to visit. She complained that I kicked. When it rained, she wore those galoshes things over her high heeled shoes. Her shoes and pocketbook always matched. She consistently left her garment bag with her hangup clothes at our house when she went home.

After Christmas there was one thank you note that my Mom made me write, and that was to Aunt Grace. I did whatever I could to get out of writing the note and sometimes I succeeded. My Mother fills that role for my children.

Aunt Grace always smelled funny, like powder and perfume. Maybe it was all that Jean Nate after bath stuff that everybody seemed to give everybody else at Christmas. I never used mine.

I remember visiting Aunt Grace and Uncle Charlie in Richmond when I was a little girl. Uncle Charlie used to snore, and it was a privilege to be allowed to wake him up in the mornings. He snorted and made all sorts of weird noises that were entertaining to me. They had a hose spray attached to the tub faucet. I stood up to use it like a shower, and got water all over the floor. Aunt Grace cleaned it up and did not complain.

You could always depend Aunt Grace to talk about the necessary food groups. "No need to have an open face sandwich at lunch time, "she used to say, "because a regular sandwich only uses two bread exchanges and you get..." I forget how many bread exchanges you got to have, but Aunt Grace always knew, and she would tell you. Even if you did not want to know.

She told me once that she was teaching a class to home demonstration club members on how to make their own underwear. I could not imagine why anyone would want to do that.

Soon after Bob and I were married we were living in Charlottesville, and Aunt Grace came to diner. The cheese sauce that was supposed to go over some vegetable was lumpy and looked awful. Aunt Grace was a gracious visitor. She had been working with Food Stamp families and brought with her brochures that she gave to those families. I still have them. She knew me well. She knew that I spent my spare time on the farm up at tree, in the woods, or fishing rather than helping Mom in the kitchen. Some of the brochures were titled, "Cheese, a Good Choice for the Thrifty Family," "Vegetables, a Good Choice for the Thrifty Family," and "Beans, a Good Choice for the Thrifty Family." There were recipes that had few ingredients and simple directions. Just my style. Aunt Grace thought it was cool that our family vehicle was a truck.

I understood from other family members that she made a mean daiquiri. She never made one for me. I think powdered sugar was her secret ingredient.

Several years ago I crocheted a lap robe for Aunt Grace. She sent me a thank-you note after she moved into Southminister. She was obviously happy there because of the comment she made about her new home, "The food is attractively presented."

I have a friend in Georgia who was a home demonstration agent in Virginia and knew Aunt Grace. Several years ago, I ahd a luncheon at my house. My friend gave me the ultimate compliment, "Aunt Grace would have approved."

Written on the death of Grace Rose Brothers,
by Mary Rose Campbell
November 1995

Sometimes You Just Need To Make Pickles

We do many things to maintain our sanity during the particularly rough times in our lives. It seems that mundane activities soothe us. I have led group meetings on the topic of meditation, and have heard folks talk about using running, swimming, gardening and washing dishes to regroup and center. We have a desire to maintain control of the environment around us. When we find that we cannot do that, letting go of the forces that we cannot control is frequently difficult. Somehow we feel that we must do something.

I remember my father applying sulfur on the peanut field on a windy day, the first anniversary of my older brother's death. Normally one does not apply sulfur on a windy day as it blows around. It gets in your eyes and makes you cry. My mother did not understand why that job would not wait until another day.

When I was a senior in high school, there was one night when I was several hours past my curfew arriving home. My mother never slept well when she did not know where her children were. When I arrived, she was sitting in the living room shelling butter beans. I had never before seen anyone shell butter beans with such intensity.

On a hot July day a few days after my younger brother died of cancer, my father insisted on installing the paddle fan on the screen porch. Mom could not understand why that could not wait. He frequently seemed restless unless he had something to do - particularly during times of stress. The few times he would sit, he was fishing. I do not remember a time when he would fish without catching something. For him it was important to be productive in his down time as well.

When my children were small, I used to take them fishing, too. One day when my older son was in second grade he became upset. I happened to be at school that day. His teacher and I agreed that he would learn nothing more that day, so I took him home. Fishing seemed to be the appropriate thing to do. I often think of the children who become upset and have no place to fish.

Several years ago I was entrusted with the care of my mother-in-law. With her rapidly failing health, my responsibilities increased and at times I had allowed myself to become overwhelmed. I started looking for simple ways to regroup. Making pickle seemed to be the appropriate thing to do. That year was the first time that I became aware of how serene I can be making pickles. Since then through a separation, divorce and several moves, I have found serenity in the making of pickles. As I moved from one location to another - all in the spring of the year one of the first things I would do after getting settled was pulling out the canning pots, and looking for cucumbers. It seems that if I could make pickle, I knew that I would be OK.

As a child I never remember a summer when my Mom did not make at least one batch of sweet pickles. The first pickles I remember took fourteen days to make. When Mom tasted some three-day sweet pickles at a church supper that tasted just like hers, it was time to try something different. We the fans of Mom's sweet pickles were not convinced. The first year of conversion, she made both. When none could tell the difference, then she switched to three-day for good. This was time management, and a real breakthrough for homemade pickles!

My children will not eat "city pickle" (that's the store bought kind), so in the late spring or early summer when the Florida or south Georgia crops come in, I still try to make some. Many years ago I used to grow my own cucumbers, but now I try to get to the Farmer's Market south of Atlanta to get a bushel (or maybe just a half-bushel). If I am rushed, I'll stop at Harry's Market rather than drive south of town.

The weighing, washing, and slicing of the pickles become quite soothing to me now. My attitude about the pickles can be a desperate attempt to "get them done," or can be an enjoying and savoring the experience of making them. And the aroma – there is nothing that matches the aroma of simmering pickles to soothe the soul. At least not in my mind.


Grandma Rose's Sweet Cucumber Pickle
Day 1 -
7 lbs. sliced cucumbers
3 cups finished lime
2 gallons water
Combine all and soak 24 hours
Day 2 -
Drain all water out. Put cold water in, and change water every hour for four hours. Drain. Pour cooled syrup over the cucumbers and leave overnight.
Syrup:
5 lb. sugar
5 pt. vinegar
1/2 box pickling spices (in a cheesecloth bag)
Boil, let cool and pour over cucumbers
Day 3 -
Boil Cucumbers for one hour and seal in jars.
Makes about 6 quarts.

The Birthday Cake

$%^&*(expletive, expletive, expletive!!!!)

The cake was on the floor. At least the pan was upright. Some of the cake was on the floor as well. AND the cake had fallen. Five second rule – picked up the pieces off the floor and put them back on top of the fallen cake. Floor wasn’t that dirty anyway, was it? How long has it been since I cleaned the floor? Cannot remember…. What a mess. Now what do I do?

Tomorrow was my birthday. I was responsible for munchies for my Sunday School class and I was making this cake with the intentions of showing up, putting birthday candles on it for me. If I cannot honor me, then no one else can, I thought. Now it was on the floor. It was so pretty in the oven. Jackie Jackson’s Pound Cake recipe out of the Beaver Dam Baptist Church Favorite Recipes Cookbook – the one dedicated to my mother, Lydia Rose. I had used the recipe before, using lemon or almond flavoring instead of the called for vanilla, but this time I used the vanilla. Simple. Complete. Elegant. Old recipe. Hard to mess them up. In the last week when I thought of what kind of birthday cake I wanted, pound cake was the only kind that came to mind.

Rosalyn had come over to have dinner with Peggy and me and they were waiting on the porch for me to take the cake out of the oven. They heard the expletives. “What are you going to do?”, they asked. Let me see, I thought. Well, the bottom of the cake still looks ok, so I know what I will do. I will turn it out upside down, then back right side up, and just cut the top off of. Maybe I can put a sauce or something on top so it won’t look so bad. I only waited a few minutes, and anxious to work on it went back in the kitchen to carry out the plan.

It didn’t come out easily. OMG, I forgot to run the knife around the edges of the pan. Too late – kerplop, the cake came out, leaving a rim of cake still in the pan. Now there was not an attractive piece of the cake anywhere. NOW what do I do? Popping a piece of the wreck in my mouth I though, “Mmmmm, pretty good. Looks awful, but tastes pretty good.

Back out on the porch I described the wreck to Rosalyn and Peggy. “What are you going to do now?” “I could make trifle, I guess.” We completed our dinner, and then I went into the kitchen to create our dessert. Rosalyn brought ice cream, and we had crumbled pieces of cake and ice cream. After the dishes were done and Rosalyn left and Peggy was in bed, I did not feel like doing anything about the cake. This is really going to be a mess to take to my Sunday School class. Then I started thinking about Sunday School. How it is that we judge others on the basis of what we wear, our haircuts, the stuff we say. We view the jobs others have and the prestige they have in the community and view them as good. We view the homeless and the people who don’t smell well and view them as lacking. Maybe this cake was to remind me to look beyond appearances.

Early Sunday morning it came to me. I made up a sign:

To my Sunday School Class:

I made this cake the way it is to remind us to look beyond the physical to the deliciousness within.

Love,

Mary

They LOVED it. There was no hesitation to bask in the flavor of this cake. It wasn’t quite done, either which made it very moist. Then when they realized that it was my birthday someone said, “Mary, we need candles to put on the cake for your birthday.” I replied, “No, I already thought of that – I don’t want my candles on that ugly cake.” Teehee.

(Written on August 23, 2009)