The screen door slammed behind us as we walked into the house, the smells from the kitchen already dancing a happy dance with our noses. I think I’m a pretty good judge of good cooks and Aunt Leone was top on the list.
We went to Aunt Leone’s several times during the year. She and Uncle Charlie lived in one of those old Southern homes with a big porch and a wide hallway dissecting the house. Aunt Leone was not a Southerner by birth, but she oozed with Southern hospitality. Often when we arrived, she would be sitting in her seat facing the door with arms and ample lap ready to snuggle little kids. One squeeze would about break me in two. Her booming voice was welcoming and was soon joined by a hearty laugh that erupted from the tips of her toes.
When we sat down at the table, there was plenty for all of us and part of the neighborhood. She didn’t scrimp on anything. Real cream and butter were staples in her house. Homemade bread and cinnamon rolls, pies, cakes, cookies, potatoes loaded with butter, vegetables, meats – it was all good. She could slap a meal together in no time at all and it was always scrumptious. No one was excluded from her table. My mother told me the story many times of going to Aunt Leone’s house when she was young. If unexpected company showed up, Aunt Leone popped open a couple of big jars of home canned chicken, threw it in a pan with butter and cream poured on top, let it cook for a bit and then served it with a big pile of mashed potatoes. Mama said that was the best ever!
On special occasions the whole family congregated at Aunt Leone’s. Almost any time was a special occasion. Long tables were set up under the big shade trees. On cold or rainy days, we piled up in the house and spilled onto the porch. By the time everyone gathered, there were no empty spaces on the tables loaded with food. Those Knapp girls could cook! Kids ran around playing in the yard and climbed on the old grist stones that stuck upright in the ground. Uncle Charlie, Uncle Herb, Daddy Bee, Mutt and John sat on the porch spinning yarns about their early days of homesteading and life on the prairies. Others would float in and out of their tales, adding a story here and there. Soon, Guy threw out the starting pitch and the game was on. Kids of all ages ran the dried cow patty bases as the ball flew through the air. After the game, it was time to cut the cooled watermelons. Sticky juice ran down the chins of kids leaving red streaks on their bellies. My Granddad ate his watermelon by cutting off slices and eating them from the tip of his pocketknife. Everyone made a second round at the tables, grabbing up scraps of cinnamon rolls or a slice of pie.
When we heard the whistle of the train, we ran to get a good view and started counting cars. There were hundreds and hundreds. All of us kids lined up at the edge of the yard, stuck our arms in the air and pulled the imaginary horn with our closed fists. We were usually rewarded when the steam trumpet blew repeatedly as the engineer pulled the whistle. If we happened to be on the road on the other side of the tracks waiting for the train to pass, Daddy might even drive down the road to the railroad trestle and we watched the endless stream of cars cross above us. The clankety clank of the train wheels on the rails echoed in the distance even after the train passed out of sight and there was one last eerie broken sound of a faint whistle.
Full and satisfied, we gathered up our dishes, balls, bats and gloves, and crammed into the car for the return trip home. A day at Aunt Leone’s was always a good day!