Even Sharon had stopped complaining. True, she wasn’t chomping on blackberries like me and Bill, turning her nose up at what birds had obviously pooped on, but she had quite a nice collection of wildflowers in her hand.
“You know what Mama said these are called?” she asked me, shoving some yellow flowers with a black center in my face. They didn’t smell very good.
“No.” I elbowed her away.
“Black-eyed Susans.” She smirked. “Which is exactly what you’ll be next time I catch you reading my diary.”
“I told you, I didn’t—”
“Sharon, Susan.” Mama’s tone stopped us both. Sounded like she was about at her “don’t tread on me” edge.
“Here we are.” Daddy led us behind the crumbling farmhouse to where a small creek bubbled out of the ground beneath a nearby boulder. “Now this,” Daddy paused for dramatic effect, “is where Pa told me he heard the voice. So, if there’s any gold to be found, it should be within a few yards of here.”
“I want to use it first.” Three voices clamored as one, with three pairs of hands all reaching for the new metal detector.
“I’ll use the metal detector until we know how it works,” Daddy stopped the erupting argument, “then we’ll go down by age. First Sharon, then Susan and Bill.”
“Why am I always last?” Bill stomped his foot.
“Because we save the best for last.” Mama gave him a sideways hug.
“Do not,” I muttered for only him to hear. “Because you’re the baby and always will be—”
“Susan!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I grumbled.
“Now, Sharon, you take this rake, and Bill and Susan you use these shovels to dig up whatever we find.” Daddy passed out the tools, once again thwarting an argument before it got going good.
With something to occupy our hands, we followed along behind Daddy, eagerly listening to the beeps for a special sound to occur. We were so quiet in our anticipation, we could hear our own excited breathing.
“Look,” Mama whispered. “Over there.”
All three gazes followed Mama’s pointed finger. A beautiful deer, a doe obviously, her fawn by her side, watched us warily—her long neck twisted, her large brown eyes widened, her ears pricked far back on her head, her skinny legs bent in preparation to flee.
We all held our breaths.
“Can I pet the baby?” Bill asked in a seven-year-old loud whisper.
Hooves crashing through the dry leaves, the doe and her fawn fled, a flock of black crows swooshing into flight from the tall oak nearby, their caws protesting the upset.
“Well, no one can pet it now,” Sharon said.
“Thanks, Bill,” I added, but without much heat. I’d been excited too.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Daddy calmed us. “Listen.”
The metal detector beeped at a higher pitch. Our whoops matched its noise.
“Let me dig first.”
“No, me.”
Mama took charge. “Here, Sharon, you rake the leaves back from this area, and Susan you dig over here and Bill you over there.”
Within minutes we had uncovered a rusty, metal . . . I didn’t know what, it was so caked with mud.
“That’s a horseshoe,” Daddy said.
Bill laughed. “I didn’t know horses wore shoes.”
“Well, you haven’t been around them much, but when horses work hard, their hooves get sore and wear out. So farmers put these metal buffers on them for protection.” Daddy dug clumps of dirt out of the crevices, his eyes crinkled in the corners with amusement. “You know, they used not to have tractors and cars. The horses provided that labor, and the farmers had to protect their livestock if they wanted to eat.”
“Cool.” Bill’s blue eyes widened. “Can I have it?”
Neither Sharon nor I had any interest in the dirty old thing, so Bill jammed one end in his back pocket.
We scoured the area for what seemed like hours, finding rusting bits of farm implements, soda-drink bottle tops, and even an Indian-head nickel and a wheat-shaft penny. Daddy and Mama shared stories with each new find—about growing up on a farm, and the hard work they’d done even at our age, priming tobacco, picking cotton. Mama told how she and her brothers had jumped in the soft piles of cotton until Grandma threatened to tan their hides. Daddy spent his hard-earned money on Grape Knee-His and serial matinees. And they’d both bought soda drinks for a nickel at the local counter-drugstore. Instead of skating rinks, TV and malls, they’d spent the long, hot summers, playing in these woods (or for Mama, those near her home) with cousins and the tenant farmers’ children.
We found a turtle shell, soft green moss, and more worms than I could count.
But no treasure.
Once I startled a mother rabbit and her five little bunnies from their den. But they all hopped away before Bill and I could catch one. And we all constantly slapped at the mosquitoes. But at least no snakes.
And no treasure.
Then it started raining, a typical late-afternoon summer thunderstorm, and we rushed for Grandma Leah’s house, frustrated, mud splattering the bottom of our pantlegs.
Mama made us empty our pockets on the back porch. I had several more pretty rocks, including a real quartz, some pieces of antique pottery, and the best find—a handful of old glass marbles. Bill’s pockets were stinky with blackberry juice from the berries he’d stuffed in them and squished worm guts, that Mama made him change clothes and put on the extra pair of shorts she’d brought just in case. Sharon, meanwhile, had nothing in her pockets, but clutched a fistful of Black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace.
While Mama helped me pull beggar lice and hitchhikers off my pants, Sharon and Daddy found an old milk bottle out in the dilapidated barn, which they filled with water at the well. Then Mama forced us to wash the red mud from our shoes and hands before she’d let us in the car.
Against our protests to outwait the rain and try again, Mama and Daddy herded us in the station wagon, storing our treasures in the back.
“I think I found the best thing,” Bill said.
“What was that?” I asked.
“The horseshoe.”
“Yeah, that was pretty cool.” I shared one of my marbles with him. “But I like my marbles better.”
“You know, Susan.” Sharon took the other one, studying it. “I’ve heard these are quite collectible. You ought to take good care of them.” She passed it back to me.
“Are you kids tired?” Mama asked from the front seat, yawning.
“Not me.” Bill bundled his dirty jeans into a pillow against the window.
I lent him my jacket to use as well. “I wish it hadn’t started raining.”
“Yeah, me too.” Sharon flipped her magazine over in her lap as a desk for examining the few coins we’d found. “When can we go again?”
Rain splattered harder outside, fogging our windows and cocooning us within, as we made plans for returning. We couldn’t go the next weekend because of Sharon’s piano recital. Then Bill had a T-ball tournament the following Saturday, and summer Vacation Bible School started the week after that. But we set a definite date for a weekend in late July.
“I can’t wait,” we all three chimed together.
We hadn’t found the fortune. It remained pure, untouched, a dream still worth dreaming. Perhaps we’d search for it again, someday, but mostly we’d cherish it in our minds, a kind of exciting assurance that there was a family treasure always lurking just a bit beyond our reach, and yet sometimes, completely within our grasp.
For one fine Father’s Day, we’d actually found the family wealth buried within our hearts.
My Great-Grandma Leah was known for her sweet potato pudding. She always cooked it in a cast-iron sk
illet on her old wood stove for holidays and family gatherings (which was every Sunday). I like to carry on her tradition—minus the old wood stove :-).
Sweet Potato Pudding
4 cups grated raw sweet potatoes
2 eggs, unseparated, beaten
1 stick butter
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp. allspice
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. salt
2 Tbsp. flour
Milk to make a soft batter (1 1/2 cups probably)
Grate potatoes finely. In a bowl, mix well-beaten eggs, melted butter and sugar. Add potatoes and vanilla, spices, salt and flour. Stir until well mixed. Add milk to make a very soft batter, but not watery. Bake in oven at 350, stirring occasionally until it begins to thicken—about 1 hour. Then bake until top is brown and crusty.
This is so good, I usually like to double the recipe—if you’ve got a big enough skillet.
A Sunday Dress
by
Betty Cordell
“The gem cannot be polished without friction, not a man perfected without trials.”
—Chinese Proverb
I CAME HOME from school that day and charged back to my bedroom, eager to shed the hated dress girls had to wear to school and get into my comfortable jeans. It was totally unfair that boys got to wear jeans while we girls were stuck with skirts. How could you hang upside down on a jungle gym in a skirt? Dumb! I threw my books on the desk, tore off my sweater, and wriggled out of the dress, stomping on it for good measure after it dropped to the floor. Catching myself, I checked quickly behind me to make sure Mama hadn’t caught me in my show of temperament. Nice Southern girls didn’t stomp their clothes.
It was 1958 and I was in fourth grade. I had waited all day for the time when I could finally pull on my jeans and veg out. I already knew which ones I wanted to wear. I had only one pair I’d worn enough and put through the washer the right number of times to be sufficiently soft and faded to perfection.
Eagerly, I jerked open the closet door and flipped through the jeans and slacks hanging there. No luck. I pawed through them again and stared in disbelief. My favorite pair of jeans wasn’t there. Another pair was missing, too. I was supposed to have four pair of jeans in various “break-in” states, but only two pair hung in my closet. I ran to the bathroom and rummaged through the hamper. Not there. I grabbed my robe and hurried to the laundry room. Not there either. Puzzled, but suspicious, I went back to my room and began a diligent search through the rest of my clothes. My suspicions were confirmed. To my horror, in addition to the two pair of jeans, three shirts—including the new one with the navy pinstripes—some underwear, my royal blue, mohair cardigan that had brass buttons stamped with a design like a knight’s coat of arms that I’d been given last Christmas by Aunt Ruby, and my pink nightgown with the white lace trim were all missing.
I knew exactly what had happened. My mother had struck again.
“Mo-o-th-th-er!” I yelled.
In a moment she appeared at my door, a look of annoyance on her face. “What in the world are you yelling about?”
“Where are all my clothes?” I asked in my most plaintive voice, knowing what the answer would be.
The look of annoyance vanished and the concerned look I knew so well spread across her face. “Well, honey,” she said, “something really terrible happened last night to a family on the other side of town. Their home burned down and they lost everything. They have a daughter about your age and I knew you’d want to help out by giving some of your clothes to her.”
I ignored the stab of guilt I felt and convinced myself that my feelings were totally justified. Being careful not to cross the line into disrespect, which might have merited a trip to the switch bush—even at my age—I continued my whine. “But, Mama, couldn’t you have given her some of my old stuff? You know, the things I don’t like anymore? And why did you give her my pretty pink nightgown? It was my favorite. And my royal blue sweater! I loved that sweater.”
After gazing a minute at my distressed face, my mother said in her ‘no nonsense’ voice, “Get in the car. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Just get in the car,” she said picking up her purse and heading for the door.
I knew Mama was irritated with me, so I didn’t chance any more questions. She started the car and we drove down our street to the corner and turned. When we got to Bellevue we continued across until we got to the main road on the other side of town. We crossed that road and continued into a neighborhood I’d never seen before.
The houses were small and didn’t have much grass in the front yard. Kids of all ages were playing ball in the street and had to move out of the way for our car to pass. The paint was peeling off the wood siding on the houses along the street and gaping holes were torn through the screen doors. Broken windows had newspapers stuffed through the cracked glass. Old rusted cars sat in the driveways and a few men leaned against them talking. The whole atmosphere made me feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. Even the pavement on the streets was full of potholes that my mother mostly dodged, but occasionally bumped through, as she guided the car down the street. But my mother drove on like she was completely familiar with this area.
“Mama,” I said, “I don’t like this place. Where are we?”
“This is where most of the workers at the woolen mill live. The mill had to lay off about a third of their employees a few months ago and the people here are having a really hard time—some, more than most. Like the family that lost their home last night. Our church has been collecting food to give to these families since the layoffs.”
She pulled to one side and stopped. “Look,” she said.
I gazed out the window. Charred remains were all that was left of what had once been a house just like a dozen others on the street—shotgun houses, they called them. Four rooms with a center hallway. A blackened refrigerator rose just above the rubble and tilted at a crazy angle. Pieces of screens lay in the ashes on the ground. A dented water heater still stood where the back porch had been.
“A little girl just a year younger than you are,” Mama said, “was awakened out of a sound sleep last night and pulled out of her house in only a pair of pajamas. Her name is Lizzie. Last night, she didn’t have time to pick up her favorite stuffed animal, or put on a pair of jeans, or even a pair of shoes. I’m told the fire spread very fast. She and her family stayed in the shelter downtown last night. This is all that’s left of their home.”
I began to feel sick inside—the way you feel when you suddenly lose your appetite, but with a heavy load of guilt and a twinge of embarrassment thrown in for good measure.
My mother continued, “Lizzie didn’t have much to begin with. Her father has been out of work and drawing government assistance for several months. But this morning, she had no shoes, no shirts, no jeans, and no home to live in. Think how you would feel if you had nothing of your own—not even your own bed to sleep in.”
I stared at my hands in my lap. I didn’t like to think about bad things. And I didn’t like for Mama to think I wasn’t a good person.
Mama’s voice had a catch in it when she said, “Your pretty clothes made Lizzie smile today and she doesn’t have much to smile about. Do you understand now why I gave your clothes to her?”
I tried to imagine coming home from school and finding ashes where our house had been and never seeing my room again. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I nodded my head. “Yes, Mama, I’m sorry I didn’t want Lizzie to have my clothes. Maybe I can find a book or a toy to give to her, too.”
Mama gave me a big hug. “That’s my girl.”
IN TIME, I came to accept that when people in our town fell on tough times, we always helped out and always with our best thi
ngs. I’m no angel. I suffered an occasional pang when I gave up a particularly pretty sweater or dress or coat I really liked; but it was easier to do when I imagined myself in the place of those girls who were my age and had lost so much. At my worst, I must admit I prayed for God to only let families with boys have troubles or at least to not let them live in Dublin, Georgia.
Dublin is a little town in central Georgia that was settled by a man whose wife was from Dublin, Ireland. He doted on his young, homesick wife and named the town Dublin to please her. Every year, the whole town came together to celebrate St. Patrick’s with a Miss St. Patrick’s Festival contest, a pancake breakfast, a community sing, a talent show, a crafts fair, and a parade. We had a real sense of community in Dublin with neighbors helping neighbors, as the need arose, and my mother was always among the first to respond.
I found myself remembering the Lizzie story when, a few years after my father died, I escorted my still beautiful, but aging mother to her sixtieth class reunion at Ware County High School, just outside of Waycross, Georgia. My mother’s excitement had been growing for some time. Because of her own and her friends’ health issues as well as difficulties in traveling, she hadn’t seen her best friends from childhood in several years. From Dublin, she planned a luncheon to give for the twelve members of her class who would be attending the reunion. It was scheduled to be held at the Holiday Inn, where we were staying, on the day following the official reception. I was recruited to address envelopes for the invitations and consult concerning flower arrangements and the food to be served.
The reception was held in April on the grounds of the old high school, now converted to an elementary school. The weather was beautiful—moderately warm with brilliant sunshine. In South Georgia, the forsythia and azaleas were already in bloom and dogwoods filled with white blossoms dotted the woods along the side of the road. The organizers had set up picnic tables under a canopy of live oak trees and the boards strained under a tantalizing spread of potato salad, cole slaw, marinated bean salad, squash casseroles, black eyed peas, creamed corn, butterbeans, sliced ham, fried chicken, barbecued short ribs, rolls, cornbread, peach cobbler, and several jugs of sweet tea. A crowd hovered over the tables filling their paper plates and talking when we drove up.
More Sweet Tea Page 13
