Smell the Memories
I have often thought about being psychic. Not a strong one but perhaps just a more intuitive person who could read the future and occasionally hear the voices or images of those who have gone before me.
I often hear in my mind or is it truly with my ears the whispers where my Nannie will call my name or suggest that I make sure that divinity candy is not left to boil too much. Stir until just the right moment and you will see it change to a dull swirl. My arms and hand always get tired and I try to mimic how she would bring the sugary white into a thin stream above the bowl to cool it. I am always determined to do it just right. I have to make her proud. Then with the quickness of the hand you use a spoon and knife to form spoonfuls of sugar and pecans onto wax paper.
Each time I am successful with a batch of this difficult candy I hear her tell me good job you learned well. We always used the same bowl. It was a pottery bowl turquoise in color and it was handed down to her from her mother then from mine to me. I have since handed it to my son for safe keeping. I have pictures of my little ones who would adore scraping the last remaining fudge goodness from the sides of this special bowl. The table we used to cool the candy now stands in my own kitchen. It is a simple table with a grey marble top. This was the only thing I asked for when my grandmother passed away. It was truly the most special table in my world. Everyone wanted it, but somehow I was the lucky recipient two years ago when I moved into the home I live in now. It had stayed at my mother’s home for some 27 years past my grandmother's death awaiting my ability to keep it with me now forever until my own children choose who will retain the honor.
Being psychic is a gift that I feel sure that most do not relish as children for they see things they can’t explain and they feel frightened. I just wish that for one more time I could walk to the post office box with my grandfather handing me the key to box 247 in the post offices of yesteryear there were ornate brass doors to unlock and bars on the windows where you purchased the stamps. The wood work there was a masterpiece to my young eyes. The building has a distinct smell about it as did my Pop with his Old Spice Shaving Cologne. I wish he was here to take me to get my favorite treat next to the curb market where the fruits and vegetables were. Ice cream was a nickel a cone and the best in this world. He would let me “milk” the cow which consisted of me sitting on the stool at the granite table where I stirred and stirred until the powdered substance had turned to milk. That was my job. He would let me climb in his lap for a bite or two of sorghum syrup biscuits he saved just for me, freshly applied Old Spice had been applied after a shave and I was content.
This man taught me to shoot squirrels out of the pecan trees in the back yard and take them to the old black man who kept up Mrs. Rencher’s yard for her. T-Bee as he was called would make stew and thanked us more than once for the gift.
At this time of the year is when I miss them both the most. Maybe if I try really hard my psychic ability would allow me just one chance to relive what I cherish the most.
The memories of growing up content smelling White Shoulders Perfume and Old Spice Cologne on the two people who taught me to live through the simple times of life.
I often hear in my mind or is it truly with my ears the whispers where my Nannie will call my name or suggest that I make sure that divinity candy is not left to boil too much. Stir until just the right moment and you will see it change to a dull swirl. My arms and hand always get tired and I try to mimic how she would bring the sugary white into a thin stream above the bowl to cool it. I am always determined to do it just right. I have to make her proud. Then with the quickness of the hand you use a spoon and knife to form spoonfuls of sugar and pecans onto wax paper.
Each time I am successful with a batch of this difficult candy I hear her tell me good job you learned well. We always used the same bowl. It was a pottery bowl turquoise in color and it was handed down to her from her mother then from mine to me. I have since handed it to my son for safe keeping. I have pictures of my little ones who would adore scraping the last remaining fudge goodness from the sides of this special bowl. The table we used to cool the candy now stands in my own kitchen. It is a simple table with a grey marble top. This was the only thing I asked for when my grandmother passed away. It was truly the most special table in my world. Everyone wanted it, but somehow I was the lucky recipient two years ago when I moved into the home I live in now. It had stayed at my mother’s home for some 27 years past my grandmother's death awaiting my ability to keep it with me now forever until my own children choose who will retain the honor.
Being psychic is a gift that I feel sure that most do not relish as children for they see things they can’t explain and they feel frightened. I just wish that for one more time I could walk to the post office box with my grandfather handing me the key to box 247 in the post offices of yesteryear there were ornate brass doors to unlock and bars on the windows where you purchased the stamps. The wood work there was a masterpiece to my young eyes. The building has a distinct smell about it as did my Pop with his Old Spice Shaving Cologne. I wish he was here to take me to get my favorite treat next to the curb market where the fruits and vegetables were. Ice cream was a nickel a cone and the best in this world. He would let me “milk” the cow which consisted of me sitting on the stool at the granite table where I stirred and stirred until the powdered substance had turned to milk. That was my job. He would let me climb in his lap for a bite or two of sorghum syrup biscuits he saved just for me, freshly applied Old Spice had been applied after a shave and I was content.
This man taught me to shoot squirrels out of the pecan trees in the back yard and take them to the old black man who kept up Mrs. Rencher’s yard for her. T-Bee as he was called would make stew and thanked us more than once for the gift.
At this time of the year is when I miss them both the most. Maybe if I try really hard my psychic ability would allow me just one chance to relive what I cherish the most.
The memories of growing up content smelling White Shoulders Perfume and Old Spice Cologne on the two people who taught me to live through the simple times of life.