On Grandma's Porch

by Deborah Smith

  A few minutes later Mamaw emerged from the outhouse just as Mr. Charlie came out onto the back porch, a big smile spread across his ruddy face.

  “What you grinning about?” she said as they passed each other on the steps.

  “Nothin’,” he said. “I’m just grinnin’, I reckon.”

  Mamaw reached the porch and turned around. “You’ve been up to something, haven’t you?”

  “No, I ain’t neither,” Mr. Charlie said from out in the yard.

  “Well, I know you have.”

  Although Mamaw could spot with blinders on a fib a mile off on a foggy night, she went inside the house without pursuing the matter further. Both Mr. Charlie and I breathed a sigh of relief when we saw the back door slam shut.

  The next afternoon Miss Gloria came into the Jitney Jungle to buy her grapes and to report to Mr. Charlie what Mrs. Wells had told her. According to Mrs. Wells, Mamaw wanted a phonograph record of “Mairzy Doats” to play on her Victrola; a nightgown she’d seen in J.C. Penney’s that had yellow and blue butterflies on it; a silver-looking knob from Montgomery Ward’s to put on the steering wheel of her Dodge truck; and a best-selling book from the Book and Art Shop that she’d heard so much about, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

  Christmas Day arrived and the three of us gathered around the Christmas tree in the parlor. As I might have expected, Santa Claus brought me stuff I hadn’t asked for: a book entitled Bible Readings for the Home, a pullover sweater one size too big, a toy Tommy gun made of wood, and a toy British helmet made of cardboard. While “he” was there, Santa filled one of Mamaw’s old worn-out stockings with two oranges, a tangerine, a grapefruit, a red Delicious apple, and a bag of parched peanuts from Romer’s “If You Can Buy a Better Bag Buy It” Peanuts.

  I said what I was expected to say. “It’s just what I wanted, Mamaw.” What I said was a bald-face lie, of course. She knew it and I knew it. Mr. Charlie, though, looked wall-eyed at me. I think he thought I meant what I said.

  After I hugged Mamaw for the Santa Claus things, she surprised me by reaching behind the sofa and picking up two presents, one of which was round like a basketball. I tore into the wrapping paper of the round gift first. Sure enough, it was a basketball, fully inflated and ready for me to roll into the highway the first chance I got for another truck to run over. The other gift turned out to be a used copy of my all-time favorite Mark Tidd book, Mark Tidd in the Backwoods.

  As I flipped through the pages of my book, Mamaw put her arms around me and said, “Davy, honey, I’m sorry we couldn’t get you that radio. Maybe next year or for your birthday. Okay?”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Mamaw,” I said. “I’d much rather read about Mark Tidd than listen to the radio any ol’ day.” I did mean that.

  I started to run outside with my new basketball when I heard Mr. Charlie ask Mamaw if she was going to open her presents. I decided to stay for the show.

  “What presents!?” Mamaw snapped, wagging a mean finger right in Mr. Charlie’s face. “You better not have gotten me anything, Charlie Kranshaw! You just better not’ve!”

  Mr. Charlie pranced into the dining room, opened a drawer, and returned to the parlor, carrying four presents. When Mamaw saw them, tears welled in her eyes and inched down her cheeks. She wiped the tears away with her fingertips, opened the first box, and squealed. “ ‘Mairzy Doats’! It’s a record of ‘Mairzy Doats.’ Charlie, how did you know to get me this?”

  “Mrs. Wells—”

  “That woman! She can’t keep her mouth shut.” She handed the record to me. “Here, Davy, go wind up the Victrola and play it for me. And don’t you scratch it, neither.”

  I hated the stupid song. It was one of those that, once I heard it, I could never get it out of my mind.

  After opening the packages that contained the Montgomery Ward’s steering knob and the J.C. Penney’s nightgown and while “Mairzy Doats” played in the background, she kissed Mr. Charlie squarely on his lips and said to him, “Charlie, this is the happiest Christmas I’ve ever had.”

  But then, she always said that.

  I pointed to the fourth present at her feet. “You forgot that one, Mamaw.”

  She blew her nose and wiped her eyes again before picking up the box and shaking it. “I just bet this is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, whatcha wanna bet? Oooooo-eee. I can’t wait to open it.” She scowled at Mr. Charlie. “You devil, you.”

  “Treace. It’s uh . . . it’s uh . . .”

  Before Mr. Charlie could finish his thought, Mamaw pulled the bow and ribbon to one side and tore apart the wrapping paper. When she opened the box, her face turned the color of raw beef. “What!? What’s this!?” she exclaimed. “A Presbyterian cookbook! Charlie Kranshaw! How could you!?” she screamed and slung the book clear across the room, knocking off the mantelpiece a photograph taken on a Christmas Day of a sad looking little boy pulling a wagon—me. The picture fell into the Victrola, causing a grating sound that brought the spin of “Mairzy Doats” to a premature and final end.

  “Now look at what you made me do!” Mamaw cried.

  I found Mr. Charlie sitting on the front steps, nursing a glass of sweet tea and smoking a roll-your-own cigarette. He looked hangdog. I sat down beside him.

  “What did Mamaw give you for Christmas, Mr. Charlie. I never did see.”

  He took a swallow of his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A brand new pair of skivvies. My sister, she sent me the same thing. That’s all I ever git. I betcha I got a hundred pairs.”

  I tried to appear sympathetic.

  “Davy?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Much oblige for the Burma Shave.”

  I nodded. Then it occurred to me. He probably had a case of the stuff.

  We sat for a while, neither of us saying anything. I broke the silence first. “Could I ask you something, Mr. Charlie?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I thought you were gonna take that cookbook back,”

  “Tried to, but they wouldn’t let me. Said the back cover looked kinda bent a little.”

  “Well, why come you give it to Mamaw?”

  “What else was I gonna do with it?” he said rather glumly. “I done spent fifty cent on it. ’Sides, it’s got a real good recipe in it for a pumpkin chiffon pie.” He looked at me as serious as can be. “You don’t reckon Treace’d fix me one sometime, do you?”

  “Don’t count it,” I said. “Not unless you know how to turn a Presbyterian cookbook into a Baptist one.”

  He took a drag of his cigarette. “Hmmm. Make it Baptist. I’ll have to think ’bout that some.”

  Mr. Charlie succeeded the following week in converting the Presbyterian publication into a Baptist one. He had a print shop make him a cover that he pasted over the front of the cookbook. It read, “Recipes for Baptists.”

  Mamaw accepted the re-titled cookbook without batting an eye. After he got off from work the next evening at the Jitney Jungle, Mr. Charlie found a pumpkin chiffon pie waiting for him on the kitchen table with a note that read, “To my husband Charlie. I know this may be a little late, but Merry Christmas anyhow. I love you, Treace.”

  When he asked her how she knew to fix him the pie using the recipe out of her new cookbook, she winked my way and said, “Charlie, haven’t you learned by now? I’m a durn mind reader.”

  A 1960s Trip To The Clothing Store And The Car Dealership

  Boy’s slacks cost two dollars

  A woman’s coat with real fur trim cost less than $100

  Women’s stretch pants were seven dollars

  Men could buy a suit for seventy dollars and a tie for fifty cents

  Men’s Oxford shoes cost thirteen dollars

  Women wore “nylons,” not panty hose, and a pair of nylons cost about a dollar
/>   A Cadillac De Ville cost $5,400

  A Chevrolet Corvette cost $4,500

  A Ford Fairlane cost $2,100

  A Volkswagen Beetle cost $1,700

  “What Did You Just Say, Grandma?”

  “Get outta my clean kitchen with those dirty feet, you yard apes!”

  Yard apes were unruly children. In other words, go play in the yard.

  “Yum! Pour some of that pot liquor over my cornbread.”

  Pot liquor was the rich juice left in the stew pot after boiling black-eyed peas, turnip greens and other good Southern vegetables.

  “That man’s got so much gray hair he must be older than dirt!”

  Older than dirt meant really old.

  “Com’ere, hon, and give me some sugar.”

  Sugar was a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’ll nuss that child ‘til it settles down and quits cryin’.”

  Nuss meant to hold, cuddle, or rock a baby or small child.

  “That woman is tough as nails and twice as sharp!”

  Meaning the person was tough and smart.

  “Don’t go lecturing me. You’re just preachin’ to the choir.”

  If somebody already agreed with you—the way a church choir naturally agrees with their minister—you didn’t need to convince them.

  A Doll With Red Hair

  by Clara Wimberly

  “A Southerner is distinguished by a sense of neighborliness, a garrulous quality, a wish to get together a lot.”

  —Charles Kuralt in “Southerners: Portrait of a People”

  It was the summer of 1948 when the Vines family rented my grandparents’ old house. Grandpa Rogers had died in the spring and Grandma decided she didn’t want to stay in the big old house any longer.

  “It’s too much for me to clean,” Grandma said one Sunday after church.

  “Why, Maude,” Mama said. “You were always the best housekeeper in the county. And the best cook.”

  “That was a long time ago, Bess,” Grandma said. “I’m too old now.” She shook her head. “I can’t get up and down the stairs the way I used to. Besides, it’s too quiet there without Grandpa. I don’t have the heart to clean and cook any more.”

  “No reason why you should,” Mama said. “You’ve done your share of cooking and cleaning. You need to take some time for yourself. And you know you’re always welcome to have your meals here with us.”

  I looked down at the table, pretending to concentrate on the damp circle my tea glass had made on the white tablecloth. I felt Daddy’s hand on my shoulder and looked up to see him smiling at me. Then he winked.

  No one could cheer me up the way my Daddy could. He was always funny. And he always understood me better than anyone.

  I smiled at him, even though I didn’t feel it in my heart. It was sad about Grandma and I hated it for her.

  “What do you want to do, Grandma?” he asked. Daddy sometimes called her Grandma even though she was his mother. “You want to sell the house—”

  “Heavens to Betsy no,” she said. “I couldn’t bear to see the place sold to strangers. When I’m gone you and your brothers can do as you please with it, but while I’m still alive . . . no. It will not be sold.”

  “You should get a little apartment in town, Maude,” Mama said. “You’d have neighbors; you’d be close to the grocery store and shopping.”

  “Oh,” Grandma said with a frown. “I could never live in an apartment. No yard. No garden. For goodness’ sakes, Bess.”

  “You can move in with us, Ma,” Dad said. “We have plenty of room. You won’t have much peace and quiet, but you sure won’t be lonely,” he said with a laugh.

  My mother got up from the table and started carrying dishes into the kitchen.

  I looked at Daddy and he made a funny face. It wasn’t that my mother didn’t like Grandma Rogers. She was just funny about people sometimes. Even people in our own family.

  “Your Mama can be a mite standoffish,” Daddy once said.

  I’d brought a friend home from school and my Mother was so cool and unfriendly that I felt embarrassed. It hurt my feelings and it certainly hurt my friend Carrie’s feelings.

  “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like Carrie,” Dad had told me. “She’s just funny around people she doesn’t know.”

  But she knew Grandma Rogers. So I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t be happy about her moving in with us. I loved the idea.

  “That’s what I’d hoped you’d say, Clay,” Grandma said. She reached over and patted my Dad’s arm and he got up from his chair and came and hugged her.

  “But I hope your offer didn’t put a crimp in Bess’s bonnet,” she said.

  “I’m sure Bess is happy to have you here,” Dad said.

  But when he looked at me over Grandma’s head he made a funny grimacing face. I couldn’t help laughing.

  “I won’t get in her way. And of course I wouldn’t think of trying to tell her how to run her own household,” Grandma said.

  “It’ll be okay, Mama,” Daddy told her. “When do you want to move?”

  “Oh law, now that’s another story ain’t it?” she said. “I’ve got so much stuff at the house. We’ll have to get rid of it. Of course you and Bess can have anything you want. And I’m sure your brothers will want some of the old furniture. I’d like to have the place rented by the end of the month.”

  “You want to rent it?” Dad said. He seemed surprised.

  “Well, of course I’m going to rent it. You don’t think I’m going to let it just sit there and go to ruin, do you?”

  “Well, knowing how particular you’ve always been about that house, I’m a little surprised. Renters can do a lot of damage.”

  “If they do they can just fix it!” she said, her lips growing thin.

  “Easier said than done,” Daddy said.

  “Clay Rogers,” Grandma said. “Are you going to help me or are you just going to give me reasons why I can’t do this?”

  “I’m going to help you, Mama,” he said with a sigh. “Whatever you want is what we’re going to do.”

  Mama had come through the dining room and now she came back, carrying a large bundle of crumpled linens in her arms.

  “Bess, what are you doing? Why don’t you sit down a minute?” Daddy asked.

  “I’m cleaning out the back bedroom for Grandma,” she said, not missing a stride. “I’m sure Maude will want her own linens and quilts in there.”

  Within a couple of weeks Grandma Rogers had moved into our house. I loved going in her room before bedtime. She’d usually be sitting in her rocker, knitting or piecing together a quilt. I’d lie on her soft bed while we talked. With my hands behind my head, I’d gaze up at the ceiling and at the rose patterns on the wallpaper.

  A few days after she moved in, Daddy came in to say he’d found renters for her house.

  “Who?” Grandma asked.

  “The Vines family.”

  “Where from?”

  “I think they came from White Oak Mountain,” Daddy said. “Used to know a Vines man lived over there. Your renter says he’s kin to him.”

  “Are they nice?” Mama asked.

  “They seem nice,” Daddy said. “Friendly. Glad to have a place big enough for their six kids.”

  “Six?” Mama asked. “Good Lord.”

  “Six and one on the way,” Daddy added. “They don’t have much. I take it Mr. Vines has had a hard time making a living on White Oak. Hopes to do better here. I told him he could farm the land, give you a share of the profit for part of the rent. I hope that’s okay, Grandma,” he said.

  Grandma sat nodding her head.

  “That’s fine, son. Nothin’ wrong with being poor. Long as you don’t mind working.”

>   “He’ll have to work with six kids,” Mama said with a grunt.

  “Seven,” I said.

  “Seven then, Millie,” Mama said. “Not that you need to know about such things at your age. And you certainly don’t need to discuss it with adults.”

  I rolled my eyes. Mama never wanted me to know anything. Of course, in 1948, pregnancy was not discussed openly and certainly not with an eight-year-old girl.

  “We’ll help them all we can,” Grandma said. “I’m just glad the old place won’t be standing empty.”

  “You might not feel that way by the time they get through with it,” Mama said.

  “Now Bess,” Daddy said quietly. “You don’t have any reason to think the Vines will do any damage to the house.”

  “I saw them as they went by. Their rattle trap wagon looked like it barely held together and the old nag pulling it is going to eat up more than Mr. Vines can make. There wasn’t much of anything in the wagon,” Mama said. “Except kids.”

  “Sounds a lot like me and Grandpa back in our young days,” Grandma said, her voice wistful. “And we came out all right. You can’t always judge a book by its cover, Bess.”

  “Let’s give them a chance, Shug,” Daddy said.

  Mama shrugged her slender shoulders and pushed her hair back from her face. She knew she was outnumbered. But I could see she wasn’t pleased.

  Early one morning a few weeks later, someone knocked at the door. I could hear Daddy talking to a woman and her voice sounded urgent. Tearful, even.

  “Millie,” Daddy said over his shoulder. “Tell your mama I’m going over to the Vines place. Mr. Vines has had an accident.”

  “Can I go, Daddy?” I asked.

  “Sure, sweetpea,” he said. “But you’ll have to stay out of the way. Now run tell your mama real quick while I get the car out of the garage.”

  Mrs. Vines was waiting outside on the porch. The first thing I noticed about her, besides the fact that she was expecting a baby, was her bright, reddish-gold hair. Freckles covered her face and arms and her eyes were an odd, bluish-green color. She looked awfully young to have six children and be expecting another.