My grandmother loved three things in this world above all else. She loved Jesus. She loved ice cream. And she loved to tell stories. In that order. Truth to tell, though, ice cream secretly may have been #1. For my part, the story-telling thing probably had the greater impact. But you get to decide. So read on, gentle reader, if you dare…
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When I was confirmed in the Lutheran church at age 15, my grandma was sitting up front with the rest of The Golden Age Class, beaming. She was a lover of old hymns: Rock of Ages, Power in the Blood, Bringing in the Sheaves – these were some of her favorites. She practiced them regularly on the upright piano in her “front room.” Once a year on Christmas eve, she’d dig out the carols – Joy to the World, O Come All Ye Faithful, Angels We Have Heard on High – those were my favorites. I mean, Rock of Ages may be fine and dandy for the Golden Age crowd. But it was a little too dirge-like for my tastes at the time.
When grandpa retired and turned over the farm to the next generation, he and grandma moved into a nice brick place a little up the hill from the Fire Hall in town. Every fall, we kids used to sit out on the porch roof bundled in blankets watching the Farmer’s Day Parade come down Main Street. We had the best seats in town. That place in town was filled with dark wood banisters, a god-awful flower-print sofa they called a “davenport,” and the old-fashioned kind of vacuum-tube TV that took two hefty guys to pick up and move. Grandpa had a huge model train set in the attic laid out on top of several plywood sheets sitting on sawhorses. In the basement there were cobwebs, Ball Mason jars full of pickled beets, and a coal bin. For all I knew, Civil War dead lay buried under the dirt floor. It smelled funny. I tried to spend more time in the attic than the basement.
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At 15, I was embroiled in the first great love of my life – and it wasn’t with Jesus. Nor was it with ice cream either. Her name was… oh, never mind. Some details are just beside the point, y’know? Suffice it to say, I credit her with introducing me to a healthy life-long enjoyment of calorie-free carnality. Also for giving me, on confirmation day, the stigmata I was grateful were hidden by my tightly buttoned starched collar. After the service, coming out into brilliant tree-leaf patterns filtering down on the church’s front steps, grandma was first to greet and kiss me. “Don’t go back on what you promised,” was all she said, eyes brimming. My face burned where her old-lady whiskers brushed my cheek. But not as much as the skin under my collar… Hey, gimme a break. I was 15, OK? Joy to the World, y’know? Let somebody else be Bringing in the Sheaves. I was a lover, not a fighter – and certainly not destined to be a farmer.
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Every Saturday night, regular as clockwork, mom and dad packed us up and trundled off to town for our obligatory weekly session at grandma and grandpa’s. Most of the evening was spent listening to grandma tell run-on tales about the neighbors. If I were a better mimic, I’d include the little snicking sound she made with her tongue in between phrases, kind of like the conversational space most other people fill with “um” or “y’know.” And of course, being a mimic, I would also include the exaggerated eye-roll mom gave whenever grandma started in on some story-or-other she’d already told the week before. Too bad this all happened before the Internet, otherwise grandma could have had a blog, and we all could have stayed home. Then mom could have done her eye-roll in private – kind of like you’re doing right now – but I digress. <Tongue-snick.>
Along about 9-o’clock when grandma’s story-stream was finally winding down, she’d get up and head for the kitchen. I knew exactly what this meant, and was glad: Ice cream and cake! Grandma had a sweet tooth. She loved to bake. She also had diabetes. So her baking forays were limited to weekends – “just for company.” My take, though? Other than gabbing with her friends in church, this was probably the high point of her week. After serving everybody up a slab of cake (chocolate) and a scoop of ice cream (vanilla), she’d lick the spoon…. Aw, hell, who are we trying to kid here? Let’s be honest: She’d dig deep and savor, straight from the carton. There may be Power in the Blood, yeah, sure. But life’s real sweetness? It resides at the midpoint of lactose and full-strength butterfat, no question about it. Jesus be praised.
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Last year I found out that, along with grandma’s sweet tooth, I had inherited her elevated A1c. I also got her penchant for story-telling too, and as legacies go, I guess there are worse ones to leave behind. Just be glad for the Internet – and for the fact that I’ve got a blog. So y’all can do your eye-roll – and enjoy your ice cream – in the privacy of your own home. <Tongue-snick.>
Now, where was I? Oh, yeah: About the neighbors…