Reunions At Grandmother’s House
Grandmother’s home. It always seemed the same, but it was half a dozen houses in whatever state Granddaddy happened to be serving as a pastor. Because he was a country preacher, they sometimes lived in the middle of his cluster of small churches since he preached at a different church each Sunday.
The big old parsonages seemed the same to a young girl who only saw them once a year. The house might need a new coat of paint, or some new roof shingles or a sagging back step repaired. But each home had an ample porch. And two rockers waiting.
They lived in a variety of places, from the humid countryside of southeast Texas to the rich fertile farmlands of Mississippi and from the slick red clay hills of Alabama to the rural woodlands of Florida. The church presbytery provided their houses.
The big porches were sanctuaries at nights for the boy cousins as they stretched out on quilt pallets and swatted mosquitoes and swapped tales. Upstairs girl cousins drew straws to see who would end up in the big feather bed. And who would sleep on the extra mattress laid out in the hallway.
Family reunions at Grandmothers were a special annual event—usually in late summer or early autumn. You didn’t want to miss them. Indoors the kitchen buzzed with sounds and smells that drifted outdoors to tempt the youngsters pitching horseshoes or climbing trees. Or gathering tomatoes and veggies from the small garden Grandaddy tended.
Food at Grandmothers. Always heaps of fried chicken with fresh vegetables and cornbread sticks—waiting to be devoured. Grownups seated in the dining room, children on the back porch. The bowing of heads, the giving of thanks. The noisy chatter while we ate. Then, the cranking of the ice cream freezer.
The cousins got reacquainted while shelling a bushel of black-eyed peas. All could catch up on life since last year in the time it took to shell them. Boys and girls shared their big dreams. They wanted to grow up to be lawyers, teachers, writers, moms and dads. And they did.
One year, long after my grandmother’s death, some cousins gathered at my mom’s house and caught up with stories of our lives while shelling peas for her. We talked about how crippled our grandmother’s hands became after the bus wreck injuries left one hand so badly affected, she could no longer play the piano. But she could still sew and sit on the back porch and visit with us while we shelled away at those peas.
Grandmother’s house. Plump feather beds, a lumpy Duncan Phyfe couch, tiny Chinese teacups, lemon drop candy to suck between meals and an endless parade of grandchildren through her house.
Golden yesterdays. In the country. At the manse. Chatting with kinfolk. Loving Grandmother.
Times have changed. Become modern. My children’s cousins don’t gather like we did. They are too busy with careers and live so far apart. And they buy their garden vegetables from supermarket frozen food shelves.
They have no idea what memory-making times they are missing by not experiencing shared dreams and secrets at a back porch shelling session.
Life’s lesson learned: I so appreciate the sacrifice of time and finances our parents made to get the families together. Our parents, who had survived the Great Depression and World War II consequences, gave us the precious gift of family closeness.
Prayer: Thank you, Lord, for happy experiences and for family bonding, Amen.
Scripture: Through skillful and godly Wisdom is a house (a life, a home, a family) built, and by understanding it is established [on a sound and good foundation]. (Proverbs 24:3 AMPC)
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