LJI, Week 11 (part 2): Granma's Words
"Lord willin' and the creek don't rise."
That never made sense to me as a kid. The creek was 8 miles away and we went there for picnics and to wade in the water and screech when we saw mud bugs. We lived near the railroad tracks, and the creek couldn't get that far unless it was the second coming of Noan and his ark.
It never had anything to do with creeks, or water at all. Unless it was paying the water bill. It was a prayer, muttered under her breath when my grandfather brought home his check and maybe a little money he hade under the table. "This should be enough, Frannie."
He'd kiss the top of her head and go to shower off the grease and sweat of a long day. I'd sit with her at the kitchen table, making neat piles of quarters, nickles, dimes on the cracked plastic table cloth. The 9-inch black and white tv was playing Days of Our Lives (Marlena has amnesia again!) while we counted, snacking on off brand saltines with margarine and strawberry jam and sipping cups of instant coffee that had long gone lukewarm. Every envelope was neatly labelled with the bill to be paid, how much was owed, and the money to be paid neatly tucked inside.
I am now allowed to to write on the envelope. My handwriting will never be as pretty as hers, but I am proud to be such a grownup.
The envelopes are filling up nicely. No half payments, even though we had to break out the penny jar.
Feeling pretty flush, I get the nerve to pull out the birthday party invite for my best friend Cindy. It's at McDonalds, which I secretly hate, but is a big deal with all the third grade kids. All of the cool kids will be there. I don't want to take cookies or a handmade friendship bracelet this year. She's getting a fancy party this year, and I need to rise to the occasion.
"Cindy really wants this Hello Kitty purse at the mall. Do you think Grandpa will make enough with that new job that I can get it for her? I'll do extra chores."
She scrapes the last of the margarine out of the container, carefully spreading it on the last two crackers. I never knew a smile could be that sad. "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise."
She gives me the cracker with more margarine. And I know from the smile and the tears that she magically keeps from shedding that I'll be borrowing embroidery thread and making another friendship.
Maybe next week there will be enough extra to bake cookies. If the creek don't rise.
That never made sense to me as a kid. The creek was 8 miles away and we went there for picnics and to wade in the water and screech when we saw mud bugs. We lived near the railroad tracks, and the creek couldn't get that far unless it was the second coming of Noan and his ark.
It never had anything to do with creeks, or water at all. Unless it was paying the water bill. It was a prayer, muttered under her breath when my grandfather brought home his check and maybe a little money he hade under the table. "This should be enough, Frannie."
He'd kiss the top of her head and go to shower off the grease and sweat of a long day. I'd sit with her at the kitchen table, making neat piles of quarters, nickles, dimes on the cracked plastic table cloth. The 9-inch black and white tv was playing Days of Our Lives (Marlena has amnesia again!) while we counted, snacking on off brand saltines with margarine and strawberry jam and sipping cups of instant coffee that had long gone lukewarm. Every envelope was neatly labelled with the bill to be paid, how much was owed, and the money to be paid neatly tucked inside.
I am now allowed to to write on the envelope. My handwriting will never be as pretty as hers, but I am proud to be such a grownup.
The envelopes are filling up nicely. No half payments, even though we had to break out the penny jar.
Feeling pretty flush, I get the nerve to pull out the birthday party invite for my best friend Cindy. It's at McDonalds, which I secretly hate, but is a big deal with all the third grade kids. All of the cool kids will be there. I don't want to take cookies or a handmade friendship bracelet this year. She's getting a fancy party this year, and I need to rise to the occasion.
"Cindy really wants this Hello Kitty purse at the mall. Do you think Grandpa will make enough with that new job that I can get it for her? I'll do extra chores."
She scrapes the last of the margarine out of the container, carefully spreading it on the last two crackers. I never knew a smile could be that sad. "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise."
She gives me the cracker with more margarine. And I know from the smile and the tears that she magically keeps from shedding that I'll be borrowing embroidery thread and making another friendship.
Maybe next week there will be enough extra to bake cookies. If the creek don't rise.