An Angel on Earth

 I think a few things need saying about my Grandmother. I hesitated considerably before doin’ this, because from such notions come charges of nepotism, showing preference and favoritism toward family members.

         Nonetheless, following a lengthy delay of 2 seconds, I’m gonna jot down a few paragraphs about this grand old lady anyhow. She was, after all, a “character” in her own right.

         It’s been 10 years since Grandma departed this life in 1970 at the age of 89. Her name was Adeline Wilkinson. To the grandchildren she was simply Grandma. Come to think of it, every kid in town called her that. Everyone else called her Aunt Addie.

         For as long as I can remember she impressed people in a particular way---of being the kindest and most gentle person they’d ever met. Grandma would not, to use a familiar phrase, harm a flea on a dog’s back. If a stray fly found it’s way thru a screen, it was to be chased from her kitchen with a swirling towel. I thought this was carrying things a little too far and would say: “Grandma, this is too much. I’m gonna’ swat the durn things.”

         This woman never met a stranger. During the summer as she sat on her front porch all who passed thru the neighborhood dropped in for a chat. These drop-in visitors would say they had only a few minutes, but it wasn’t unusual for them to later realize they’d spent 2 hours talking to “Aunt Addie.”

         If a stranger passed by and kept walking Grandma would almost demand they come in for coffee and home-made applebutter biscuit. Home-baked bread was served in her home not only at breakfast time---it was the only kind a diner could see on the table three times a day, seven days of the week.

         When Grandma went to town, which was often for she loved to go, she greeted every person she met with a hug and a buss to the cheek. A standard procedure accompanied that greeting: “Sweetheart, you’re lookin’ so much better than when I last seen you.” Everyone looked fine to Grandma; each person was pretty. These compliments were even heaped on complete strangers.

         We lived with my grandparents the first few years of my life (the next year after the Stock Market crash in 1929 right up to the day of infamy when the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor) The house where they lived was in Hungry Hollow, sometimes today mistakenly referred to as Montevista. Don’t you believe a word of that foolishness---Hungry Hollow is the true name of that particular suburb of Narrows!

         That old house was of the type everyone has heard about---big and rambling. Also uninsulated and cold! During the frigid winter months ---very, very cold. The small amount of heat that stayed inside came from two sources; a big wood stove in the kitchen, and a fireplace in the parlor. Most of the life-sustaining heat went up and out the chimney.

         But Grandma didn’t think so. On a cold wintry night she’d back up to the fireplace and remind us how lucky we were to be living in this nice warm house. The rest of the family would be sitting on the other side of the frontroom, a mere few feet away but shivering and nearly freezing to death. We’d be wishing Grandma would return to the kitchen--- so we could back our own butts closer to the fireplace! And maybe sneak out one of “them taters” baking in the ashes.

         Now then, right here a few words will be inserted concerning the proper way to bake a spud. In these modern crazy times people actually wrap potatoes in cellophane and bake em’ in a microwave. All dining-out places serve em’ that way. Hellsfire fella,’ that’s murdering a tater, certainly not the way to bake em.’ There’s only one way in this world to bake a potato. You place it gingerly in a bed of fireplace ashes and cover with hot embers. Turn it occasionally and leave er’ there til the jacket is completely black. Then she’s ready fer salt and butter. I learned this 45 years ago. And you, kind reader, are more than welcome to this useful bit of information. Best of all it’s absolutely free.

         Though everyone else knew the fireplace had it’s limitations and wasn’t doing it’s job anywhere near properly, still it was Grandma’s pride and joy. She spent lotsa’ time in front of that fireplace, and it seemed she could never get a log or lump of coal laying just right in the blazing inferno. As I remember she always had a poker in hand and was forever more re-positioning logs and lumps of Blue Banner coal. After that laborious toil she used the poker to turn “them taters” one more time.

         Yeah, lotsa’ activity around the flaming center in a pioneer style parlor. Also much talk concerning the fireplace--- quite often it went beyond talk. She and my grandfather had some arguments about that heating unit. These spats erupted every time he got the chills sitting in that frontroom, just 6 feet away from where all the heat was escaping out the chimney. Said Grandpa: “I’ll guarantee you one thing. If I don’t die of pneumonia before winter ends, there’ll be some changes before another rolls around.”                           But those changes never came. You can infer from that who won the arguments. As stated in the beginning, Grandma was a kind and gentle person. But don’t go messin’ with her fireplace!.

         And now for a tad of information about a kitchen and cookstove. The doggone thing occupied nearly half the kitchen floorspace, and miracles were performed on it’s eyes and in the oven. The meals prepared in Grandma’s kitchen were stupendous and sumptuous. Fit for a king, my friend---fit for a king.

         Permit me to tell you about Sundays at that old house, and the role played by the stove and kitchen in hundreds of Sabbath days. Said table accommodated 10 diners per sitting, and sat smack-dab in the middle of that kitchen. Lotsa’ folks ate in the dining rooms of their homes. We ate in the kitchen. Hell, if it was clean enough to cook in, it was gol-durned clean enough to eat in!

         And on Sundays many, many people ate at this one. Yes sir, always plenty of company on the Lord’s Day. I witnessed 10 people eating at Grandma’s table, they’d finish, and clean plates set for 10 more. On and on, for what seemed like 3 hours. They came in a never-ending stream, reminiscent of an army chow line.

         But of course, all “grown-ups” had to be fed first. In my youth (1930’s—1940’s) there were two kinds of people in the world. If you “wuz” little---you were a kid, or sometimes referred to as a brat. If you wuz big---you were a “grown-up.” And kids don’t eat before grown-ups. One who tried to sneak to that table before all them grown-ups had been fed was said to be “the most ill-mannered brat in the world.” I was called that many times---when caught trying to sneak to the table ahead of grown-ups.

         What did one find served there? Do you like chicken? Your choice of southern fried, or baked with chicken dumplings. Roast beef you say? Right here with all the trimmings. There is even country ham and fried eggs served on this dinner table---someone may have missed breakfast.

           The vegetarian would have been delighted here. Steaming bowls full of every type known to man. Coffee came from two big pots perking on the woodstove. Those coffee pots danced and played in concert on the stove eyes, and when the concoction got just right, excess brew came spewing forth about 4 feet from their spouts.

         After the main-course dinner it’s dessert time. Anyone for home-made ice cream? The variety is not the best; usually only vanilla. But the cakes baked in that oven were artistic creations, and came in a varied assortment. Chocolate, coconut and plain layer. Those plain cakes were left unadorned of icing for an exclusive purpose. For breaking up into little chunks to drop into that bowl of thick, yellow egg custard. Apple, lemon and butterscotch pies. The whole lineup were on this table.

         I must backtrack for a moment, because it’s my desire to offer

instructions  about the proper way to eat and dispose of egg custard.Them grown-ups want you to eat it with a spoon. But that method isn’t fast enough in transferring egg custard “from bowl to mouth.” A spoon is used only when grown-ups “is watchin’.” When they ain’t, you turn that bowl up and drink er’ down. But don’t let one of them grown-ups catch you. If they do, “you’re the most ill-mannered brat in the world.”

         Today I often shove a TV dinner in the oven, leave er’ 30 minutes, take it out and get burned fingers while trying to peel back the cellophane cover. Doesn’t look too appetizing---tastes rather bland. And it never fails---I think back to those Sundays of long-ago. It’s then that I say to myself: “If I had a bowl of egg custard I’d turn er’ up and drink er’ down. I wouldn’t care if grown-ups were watchin,’ or even if they thought it ill-mannerly.”

         Late on Sunday afternoons when everyone began departing for their own homes, Grandma walk down to the road with each. Down to where those LaSalles, 1931 Chevrolets, and A-Model Fords were parked.

         “I feel right bad cause I didn’t have too much to eat,” she would say while looking so forlorn.

         “You had plenty Aunt Addie, plenty.” Really now.

         “Maybe it was fillin.’” I always thought so.

         “It was Aunt Addie.” The departing kinfolk always gave Grandma a ten rating.

         “Y’all come back next Sunday. Maybe by then I can find somethin’ decent for dinner.”

         They did come back the following Sunday. And the next. For months to come. For years to come…

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Books are great, but not the sole source for learning. Grandma had very little, if any, formal schooling. Yet this grand lady was one of the best “educators” I’ve ever known.

         I distinctly remember one of the first lessons learned from my Grandmother. About 1940 ( I was 10 years old ) she told me about Reverend Robert Sayers Sheffey, a circiut-riding Methodist preacher who lived in this area during the years spanning 1820-1902.

         Grandma, always a very religious person, attended many church services held by the man she called “Brother Sheffey” ( Grandma’s years on earth were 1881-1970 ).

         According to her this Methodist minister was a hellfire and brimstone preacher, very intense in his sermonizing and prayer. He was also famous for his eccentricities. Reverend Robert Sheffey held great authority and influence over the rural population here for decades ( a highway sign near his gravesite attests to these facts ).

         Many people of those days, both good and bad, believed Robert Sayers Sheffey came from a supernatural realm, and passed thru here enroute to an equally mystical destination.

         Moonshiners, men who abused their wives and children, partakers of alcoholic spirits and others of ill-repute were deathly afraid of Reverend Robert Sayers Sheffey, and gave him a wide detour. There are documented instances of him calling down lightning from above to stress a point!

         In 1940 I believed Robert Sheffey was something more than an ordinary man. If not ordinary, then the circuit-rider must have been extraordinary. A man, or something, above average and not quite like you and I.

         Now, 67 years later, my mind hasn’t changed one iota. And on that note nothing more will be said about this matter….

        There is a skoal fad sweeping thru the country today. The doggone stuff is in such demand that in order to buy it you must be at the store when the wholesale truck unloads. Everybody and his brother too are dippin’ the doggone stuff.

         Well boys, listen to me---Grandma was way ahead of you! She was keepin’ a little pinch between cheek and gum 60 years before Walt Garrison made his famous TeeVee commercial, and 45 years before the former Dallas Cowboy was even born.

         She also smoked a corncob pipe, but never inhaled the nicotine-laden smoke. She’d just pull er’ in and blow er’ back out. I’ve seen so much smoke comin’ from that corncob it looked like a tribe of Indians were talkin’ to their blood brothers who were camped just over the next ridge.

         She was never a movie-goer, but when television came along  she really dug that idiot-box. Her favorite time for viewing was Sunday morning; she liked the preachers and gospel singing. We grew up with E. Howard Cadle, preaching over the radio airwaves from Indianapolis, Indiana.

         Though Grandma would never admit it, she got addicted to “them there westerns.” To her, “them” cowboys wuz’ either good men, or they wuz badmen. She made a point of watching to see where “them old mean men” were lying in wait to hurt the good man. And as the man on the white horse neared the spot of that ambush, she’d tip him off. Verbally, out loud: “Watch out, yonder he is behind that rock!” The hero evidently heard her too. Them dad-gummed bushwhackers never did get to dry-gulch him.

         The day they laid my Grandmother to rest, the preacher began his sermon by telling us she was a rose that for 89 years had been in our midst, had wilted, and then just faded away. He then said lots more things. He ended his sermon by saying this rose would spring forth again. To which he could have added: “in full bloom.”

         Recently I’ve read and heard about an old lady of the cloth who has spent 35 years working with and helping the starving poor people of Calcutta,India. For decades Calcutta has been known as the poorest and most wretched city on the globe. People die there of disease and starvation by the tens of thousands every year. This Mother Teresa has been it’s streets and gutters a long, long time.

         Just two summers ago the church officials sent for her. They were bringing her to the glittering Capitols of Europe. Some matters of importance required her presence there.

         First,they awarded her a Nobel Prize, and the cash award that goes along with it was used to buy food for the starving. Now plans are being made to canonize her. Yeah, they’re going to make Mother Teresa a Saint!

         When the honors were completed she returned to Calcutta. And around the world today she is known as “The Saint of the Gutter.”

         I think I know just what kind of person that little old lady is . You see, I once knew someone just like her….

The End

M.L. Wilkinson

September, 1984