The Sentinel
Saturday, Feb. 26, 2022
Lewistown, PA—35
JUNIATA VALLEY MAGAZINE
My own fairyland
Crystal Snook Fishbein
Crystal, raised just across the Mifflin County line in Bannerville, is married to Sentinel Lifestyles Editor Jeff Fishbein. Going to visit my Great Gram and Pap Snook (Hattie Vina and Jay Leroy) was like visiting my own personal fairyland. I can still hear the creak of the screen door as I entered what I think was referred to as the summer kitchen. It wasn’t the scary creak from horror movie soundtracks, but rather the creak of coming home—a sound of belonging and love. From the summer kitchen you entered the house through the back door to the kitchen. (There was a front door, but no one ever really used it. Only strangers or guests entered through that door. Family came right through the kitchen door.) Entering that kitchen was like stepping through time. The chrome edged, Formica-topped kitchen table always gleamed. The antique appliances sparkled. Immediately you would get the sense of being wrapped in love, warmth and belonging, totally safe from the outside world. The memories of my Gram Snook are somewhat sparse. I can see her in my mind’s eye as a tall thin woman with snow-white hair. She never had much to say that I can remember. She was always there and always present, but more of a supporting char-
Pappy Jay and Gram Snook. If you look behind him, you can see portraits of Crystal and her brother.
acter on my life stage. The magic that she brought to my fairyland was one of bright colors, needles and thread. She made the most beautiful quilts, mostly by hand. She probably had a sewing machine, most likely a treadle machine, but I don’t have a clear memory of a machine. I can almost see her sitting in the living room bringing scraps of fabric together with a needle in hand. I know she made quilts in various patterns. I can’t remember them all, but I do know she worked on a Sunbonnet Sue. She brought the fabrics, the pattern, and some of cut pieces to the kitchen table and showed us her vision of how it would all come together. One of her goals was to present each of her children
with a handmade quilt, then perhaps move through some of the generations. The quilt she gifted to my grandfather is a cherished heirloom. My grandparents never used it, but rather kept it in a cedar-lined chest. After they both passed, it was a scavenger hunt to find that quilt. Both my father and uncle were sure that it no longer existed. The day the quilt was located and found to be in pristine condition was one of the happiest. That quilt is now in use in my father’s home. It’s far too important to both of us to have it put away and never seen. I love to snuggle into its folds. I can close my eyes and almost feel the sense of family and love that was used to create it. Once the adults caught
up and chatted a bit, my true adventures would begin. Pappy Jay would take me out exploring. I remember an old brown and white cow with big brown eyes and a soft nose. It didn’t take much convincing to have me believe that pulling on some udders gave white milk, while others produced chocolate milk. Next stop was the hen house. I was always excited to find an egg — even though it wasn’t the golden one that I had hoped to find. All the while, Pappy Jay would tell me stories about the mundane business of keeping the hens safe. He did this in a way that made it sound like the most glorious adventure. If it was a hot summer day, we would wade in the creek to see what animal life could be found. He taught me how to find the veins of clay in the creek bed. We’d gather the clay and head to the house to turn it into animals. The most famous of these clay animals were frogs. To this day, there is a blob of dried creek clay that was fashioned into something that resembled a frog created by the hands of a small child, that resides in the attic of my father’s home. Returning to the house was not the end of the adventures. If I were very lucky, I’d get to visit the cellar. It was the most magical place of all (truth be told, it probably wasn’t much
more than an old root cellar). In that space, dandelion flowers were turned into the sweetest wine. I’d be taught how to layer the crocks, what to add to the flower heads, and how to tend the brew until it was time to start straining it. My grandfather would very
methodically and patiently strain it daily until I could see right through it. Samples of the wine would be collected and taken to the kitchen. While the adults sipped their wine, the story telling would begin anew. See Snook / Page 36
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