Category: Childhood Memories

Those gathered around the dinner table held hands with heads bowed as the elderly man began his prayer with song, “Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the crowd….” The crackled voice broke causing a wave of emotion to wash over us.  I lifted my eyes but dared not look around to see the expressions of the others. I couldn’t have seen if they had tears in their eyes for my own that threatened to spill over. Just that simple tune was one of the greatest proclamations of thanks and blessings.

The tune transported me back more than 50 years ago. The pitcher stood on the mound. “Batter’s up!” He started his wind-up, his arm spinning like rotors on a helicopter about to take off. “Swing batter batter,” was heard from the field. Crack! The ball flew through the air as the batter ran at full speed. As he turned first base and headed to second, dried cow manure was flung from the soles of his shoes. 

That’s how we played ball when our families got together. We’d grab our gloves and crawl through the barbed wire fence and into the pasture. Dried cow patties served as the bases. Some of the boys stripped off their shirts and others put on their caps. A ball game was serious business! I always wanted to be on the team that had the most Clark boys. Those boys knew how to play ball and I wanted to be on the winning team.  The Clarks, Hambys, Spallers, Wards and all the other cousins, young and old, picked teams. Guy, pipe in mouth, was the pitcher. When the little kids got up to bat, he shortened the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate. The little ones were just as much part of the team as the big ones.  And if a little one hit the ball there was more cheering than if one of those big guys hit the ball over the fence and into the neighbor’s field. 

When the big game was over, the teams grazed from the leftovers stretched out on makeshift tables under the shade trees. My granddad, having thumped his watermelon to prove it was ripe, cut the watermelon into pieces. Kids lined up to get their slice.  Juice ran down their chins and dripped down their bellies.  The old timers told the same stories they had told for years but we listened as if it was the very first time we heard them. They talked about their days living on the prairies of Montana. It seemed their hearty laughter could be heard for miles away as it bubbled up from the tips of their toes, their booming voices drowning out the chatter of the others. We were given predictions of the baseball teams that were bound to be going to the championship games. Women exchanged recipes and swapped cotton yarn for knitted dishcloths. Though our bellies were full, the soothing aromas of my Aunt’s kitchen still enticed us to get another cinnamon roll (if there were any left) or a piece of pie. With those cooks, there were very little leftovers to take home. By the time we left for home, we were completely satisfied. Nothing beat a day spent with cousins and other relatives with plenty of food, fun and loads of laughter. The stories and laughter still echoes in my memories.  

Though many have slipped away, we continue to pass the stories down. That is our heritage and well worth the remembrance.  What great blessings we have been given! Family, food, stories, laughter, memories!

 Prayers don’t always come in pious or fancy words. Nor are they merely petitions for intervention. Often the prayers that reach the heights of heaven are simple remembrances and thanksgiving of God’s blessings. It might even be a silly tune that speaks volumes.

The elderly man continued his prayer, “….One, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game.” “Thank you Lord for those gathered around the table…”  

My daddy like to garden. His garden was a place gnomes liked to hide. All kinds of contraptions were found in his garden – concrete blocks, big rocks, plastic, scraps of things tossed in the trash, strips of old carpet, discarded stockings or socks chewed up with toenail holes. There were lots of hiding places for garden fairies, toads, tortoises, rabbits and even gnomes. A scarecrow stood as sentry. It was sometimes attached to tomato cages or stood straight and tall, tied to a long stick. A shirt, hat, bandana or other garments completed its wardrobe. At the end of the harvest, the weathered, saggy crow was dismantled only to be replaced the next year by a newer model.

Daddy would try to grow almost anything, even produce that wasn’t supposed to grow well in the south. Various things were added to the soil. There was sand in the carrot bed, chicken manure, straw, fertilizer and peelings from fruits and veggies scattered in other parts of the garden. He planted fruit trees and bushes, and even tried his hand at grafting. Somehow that little man, who had an unconventional way of gardening, managed to grow an abundance of food in a little bit of ground. I think he must have used fairy dust.

Sometimes he planted Indian Corn. When the corn was ready, it was a sure sign of fall. Some of the kernels were exposed adding a splash of fall color to our table for a time. When it was good and dry, we would shuck the corn by pulling back the husks. I can still feel the corn as we removed the kernels from the cob. I put both hands on an ear of corn and twisted my hands in opposite directions working the kernels loose. By the time we were all done, our hands were sore.

A myriad of various shades of red, orange, yellow, and purple kernels fell into the bowl. When the kernels were good and dry, then came time for popping. Oil was heated in a pan, corn thrown in, and soon pop! Pop! Pop! The popcorn was good right out of the bowl, or for making popcorn balls, or caramel popcorn. Mama mixed up a syrupy mixture for popcorn balls. We’d butter our hands and shape the sticky popcorn into balls and wrap it in cellophane. That also meant it was also time for candied apples or caramel apples.

Colorful leaves swept into the air by a cool wind, pumpkins, the bite of the breeze on my cheeks, a warm jacket pulled tight, cuddling up in a fuzzy blanket in front of a cozy fire, roasting marshmallows over a bonfire, remnants of the overgrown garden, dried cornstalks, droopy scarecrow, colors of Indian corn, and caramel apples were reminders that Summer had passed the torch to my favorite season – Fall.

Every year, it still brings warm memories of special times with family and friends.

My dad’s favorite food was gravy. Seriously!

Brown gravy, milk gravy, gravy made from sausage, chicken, burger, roast beef, lumpy gravy, runny gravy – it made no difference to him – he liked it all. When he cooked for himself, he sometimes sprinkled gravy mix out of a bag and cooked it in water. He thought that was even good.

Nothing much beats gravy on hot biscuits, mashed potatoes, or rice. He even ate it on those nasty green muffins he made from split pea soup.

One day when he came for a visit, I had some warm caramel icing on the stove that I was going to serve for dessert – open faced chocolate cake with that nice warm caramel poured over the top all soaked in with real cream poured on top. I do not remember exactly what I had cooked for supper, but I know there was some kind of meat – probably chicken or roast beef – that had good drippings for gravy, and mashed potatoes.

Daddy scooped a big pile of potatoes on his plate, walked over the stove, and poured some caramel on top. Boy, was he ever surprised when he took a bite! It wasn’t the kind of gravy he expected. Apparently, his taste buds didn’t complain too much because he ate all his potatoes (of course he would eat ANYTHING). I think he helped himself to another spoonful or two and put real gravy on top.

For dessert, he got another gravy ladle full of the other “gravy” and slathered it on his cake.

It was good both ways!

Being the youngest of six children, I got hand-me-downs from both my sisters and my brothers. We didn’t have much, but I guess some of us didn’t know it. 

Daddy worked a full-time job, went to school at Emory University and pastored three country churches. There was only one car, so Daddy shopped for groceries and other household goods. Mama kept herd on six preacher’s kids! She had her hands full just with the washing, cleaning and cooking plus the thousand other things she did. 

One year, the food on our table was provided by funerals. That may be morbid to think about, but when someone died, daddy was asked to do the funeral. The money he was paid for his services provided our groceries. 

I didn’t worry much about what we were going to eat. I only knew there was always food on the table. Actually, there was one more thing I knew – I hated oatmeal. No matter, it was a regular at the breakfast table. It was cheap, it stuck to our ribs, it was a hot meal and even spiced up with sugar and milk, it tasted terrible. One day I had enough! I sat in my highchair (I was a little kid) at the dining room table and refused to take one more bite! Through the dining room window, I could see my brothers and sisters playing and running outside. But I had to stay there until I finished my breakfast.

Soon I heard Mama in the kitchen starting lunch. It sure smelled good! It wouldn’t be long! Lunch was served but guess what sat in front of me! You guessed it – cold oatmeal. Guess what had to be eaten before I got any warm lunch? Yep – an oatmeal popsicle on a spoon.

I learned a couple of valuable lessons that day. For one, Mama was not easily persuaded. She didn’t give an inch – didn’t budge – was immovable – was downright stubborn. 

I learned something else, too.Just because something is good for us, it doesn’t mean it tastes good. 

At least I didn’t have to eat grits!!

My sister and I moved into a new neighborhood. That drew many speculations among the neighbors. They eyed us from behind their bushes or peeked through the curtains that covered their front windows. 

One afternoon, the next-door neighbor was in the yard and came over to speak to us. Somehow the conversation turned to us being preacher’s daughters. The guy said, “Oh, so you play the piano.” I said, “Well …. yes, but why would you assume that?” He said, “ALL preachers’ daughters play the piano.” I responded, “That’s not true.” But at that moment, I honestly could not think of one preacher’s daughter I knew who did not play the piano. Maybe he was right. He’s the one that thought we were WACs, too, and that wasn’t true.

The little word “all” is one of the biggest words in the English language. It is ALL inclusive, so can easily turn into one of the smallest, narrowest words in the English language. Though it encompasses a vast range, it also narrows by stereotyping and takes away individuality. 

ALL preachers’ daughters DO NOT play the piano is one of many misconceptions.

Handle ALL with care!