Sunday Dinner Marsha Spiers

Marsha Spiers

It’s one of those warm, fuzzy memories. You know the kind. They bring a faint smile to your lips and, if you can keep the things that follow in later years at bay, a tug to your heart. We would all be loaded in the car. No small feat for there were seven of us kids. The trip to the ranch around the winding mountain road had been taken so often, that it seemed to go by quickly. The ranch sat nestled at the base of the hills surrounded by fields of hay, with the creek meandering through the middle. Horses and cattle dotted the landscape. A few miles away sat one of those sleepy small towns that had seen prosperity once, but a long time in the past. There had even been a small teaching college in its heyday, but now it was boarded and silent. The town served the needs of the ranchers that lived close with a grocery store and a gas station. My Grandparents would be waiting at the end of the long, tree lined drive, in their pink farmhouse. Busy, mind you, not just sitting around. They were some of the most industrious people I was to ever know. The same was expected of you when you came to visit. I don’t remember ever going there to just sit and visit, unless it was on the yearly pilgrimage to see their Christmas tree. It was truly a thing of wonder to a small child. They had those amazing candlestick lights that had bubbles that magically rose in their tiny tubes. It was always decorated perfectly, with all the tinsel hanging in exact order. You see, that was the kind of mother my father had…exacting. Grandma was a tiny woman, but strong and always busy. She raised seven children and buried three of them. Worked on the ranch like a man and grew a large garden to feed them all. My memory is of her always in a dress with an apron. She grew that garden right up to the day she died. Her flowers were her pride and joy. It was said that a weed knew it didn’t have a chance, so it didn’t even bother coming up. She ran a tight ship. You could eat of the floor in her kitchen. She went so far as to starch and iron her sheets and tea towels. She was so busy, in fact, that I never remember a hug or word of encouragement. It wasn’t that she didn’t speak much, in fact, she had a loud and carrying voice. We children knew that, no matter where we were or what mischief we were doing that voice would carry to us and find us out.

The orchard was my favorite place to hide. The trees had been there for many years, so they were large and productive. There was a tall row of lilacs separating the house yard from the orchard, so, if somehow you could manage to be quiet, you could eat the apples and play wonderful, pretend games, until someone caught you. Grandma always said the orchard was no place for children. She said we would break the limbs of her trees and trample the fruit that had fallen. She was right about all the damage we could and did do, but she was very wrong about it being no place for children. Past the cellar, and down the hill, the creek separated the house from the corrals and the barns. The only way across on foot was a tree that had been laid bank to bank. It had been planed on one side to make it traversed more easily. It was still narrow, and good balance was required to make it across with out ending up in the stinging nettles and the creek. The chicken coop was on the barn side of the creek and it was one of our jobs to gather the eggs. Some of my brothers and sisters liked that job. It held terror for me. Just going into that little dusty room and having to shut yourself in with all those chickens, who didn’t want you in there, took all the courage I could muster. But that wasn’t the end. You then had to stick your hand under the sitting hens and steal their eggs. They always sensed my fear and started to squawk and flap and fly around. Once one of them started, it soon spread to all of them and pure pandemonium would break out. To this day I can recall the feeling of hopelessness as those chickens flapped and squawked around my head. After you finished your work in the garden, the orchard or the chicken coop, grandma always fed us. She would set the big table in the dining room and there was always lots to choose from. She would use the cloth tablecloth and the good dishes. Grandpa, on hot summer days, would often bring the ice cream freezer to the back porch and make us a special treat. It was hard to be patient while the crank was turned ever so slowly. He was very particular about how it was handled. The ice had to be just the right size. The salt had to be added just so and the crank had to be turned so many times a minute. If you were the one who helped the best, you could have the pleasure of eating your ice cream off the beaters. I’m not sure why the ice cream tasted better off those beaters, than in a bowl, but I know it did. Many years have passed since those Sunday trips to the

ranch. Someone else now owns it and the little pink farmhouse has been torn down and replaced. My grandparents have passed on and all that remains are the memories and a cookie jar. It’s shaped like an apple and it used to sit on the kitchen counter in my grandparents’ home. It sat by the back door and, if you were very good you could have a cookie as you were leaving. Never when arriving. You see, small children and cookies would make crumbs on a kitchen floor so clean you could eat from it.

TREE

Adam did not want the apple for the apple’s sake; he wanted it because it was forbidden.

MARK TWAIN