Growing up in our family, we were lucky to have four generations alive and well. From England to Ireland to Germany, we definitely had things covered. I always used to joke that I didn’t count because I wasn’t a “first born”, but it didn’t really bother me, and I still reaped the benefits of the love and influence of all of my parents, grands, and greats.
I remember as a child spending time at my great-grandmother Jones’ house. I can remember quite vividly, listening to her speech. She had such a unique way of talking. I don’t know if it was a reflection of her personality, of the times, or simply the language of the locale, but you can bet, especially as a small child, it was a party when she spoke.
Like all good things, the joy my great-grandmother brought to our lives usually involved a little food. She was a great cook, but even the best like to enjoy a simple bowl of “siral” from time to time. She’d say it like she was addressing some ancient Roman king, when all she was offering was a bowl of Shredded Wheat. Of course if a hot breakfast was our choice, we could always have a perfectly cooked pair of “aigs”. And so it is with our boys.
In addition to early morning “aigs” with cheese, my boys are partial to “awfuls”. This is a specialty of their grandmother.
Cooper’s first introduction to bacon was on a trip to see his grandma in Duncan. Something about that combination must have had him confused because from that moment on, for him at least, bacon was called “Duncan”.
He started out drinking lots of “mulk”, and for Brisco it was called “mik”. Somehow they’ve discovered that cows can also make it in “choc-ett”, which I think is really a cruel joke. Jelly is ”jewwy”, and shashage is a tasty addition to any breakfast time meal. Lately, however, our new all-time favorite is “Alto-meal”, and Cooper has no qualms about correcting us when we say it improperly. I’m sure good ole Jones would smile.
Her talents in the kitchen didn’t stop with breakfast. Jones was the queen of coconut cream, and she put a sugar icing on her chocolate cake that none of us can quite replicate. Pudding was also popular, mostly in the bread variety. Of course to her, it was called “puddn”. Maybe that’s where my sweet cousin, Jake, picked up the phrase.
When the weather would allow, we had afternoon parties in her garage, and peanut butter and graham crackers were the teatime snack. We’ve tried to carry on the same tradition at our house, but out on the picnic table or on the porch.
After our party, she would send us back inside for a trip to the “stool” in preparation for our afternoon “rest”. She was always concerned with the movement of my bells, and it wasn’t until I finally asked her one time that I realized a “bell movement” had nothing to do with music.
Some days, if we were lucky, we could talk her into clearing off the counter so we could climb on up, stretch out our “laigs” and get our hair “warshed” in the kitchen sink. Even the best beautician I know can’t scrub a head like ole Jones. My boys could care less about stretching their laigs or warshing their hair. Come to think of it, neither could my cousin, Derik. Maybe that part was strictly for the girls.
If we had been particularly wound up on any given day, Jones would prepare us a pallet: a thick blanket under a cool sheet and a couple of feather “pillers”. We’d settle in and try to get quiet just long enough for her to listen to her “stories” on the television. I think we must have been much better-behaved than my boys. That little scenario would never fly at our house. There would be pillers and sheets and feathers in the air, and the story would have been drowned out by the tickle monster…or screams from the tortured.
As we got older, we could sometimes talk Jones into letting us watch our own story on the tele. It usually involved Hulk Hogan or Rowdy Roddy Piper or some other truly authentic American athlete. Looking back now, I’m sure she must have wondered what this world had come to, that two of her own could be interested in such “trash”. Boy how we change when we have kids…I won’t let my boys watch Sponge Bob, but my cousin and I were totally engrossed in watching grown men get body slammed.
If, at the end of the day, we had made plans to stay the night, rest assured we’d be sleeping in the bed with Jones and flicking a little water on the sheets by an open window to stay cool. We’d beg for her to tell and retell the story of the owl, and we’d light up the dark with our smiles each time she got the end: “Who, who, who cooks for you?” I wish I could remember that story. My boys would love it.
Although they never met, I know my boys are still being touched and guided by the spirit and love of my great-grandmother Jones. They may not have known her face, but have felt her love and influence through their mother, their grandmother, and their great-grandmother. And they are sure to reap the benefits for generations to come.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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