My ears perked up at the familiar thud…thud…thud
on the staircase, followed by the slam of the screen door. My brother
was fourteen — six years older than I — and we didn’t communicate much, other
than to fight and say dreadful things to each other. But I could always count
on him to indirectly let me know when it was time to go to our
grandmother’s house for lunch. “Tom!” I’d yell, scrambling to tie my sneakers
and get through the door before he was out of sight. “Wait for me!”
My grandmother and grandfather lived in our small town
“down by the creek,” and even though it was only a couple of blocks, there was
a busy street that I was forbidden to cross alone. Tom would allow me to
go with him…as long as I stayed at least half the distance to the moon behind
in case he ran into one of his buddies along the way. Nothing would be more
humiliating to a high school freshman than to be seen walking anywhere
with his dumb little sister. It was worth the effort to stay out of his way
because at the end of our journey was the promise of a table full of the
greatest food in the world.
May Blume Rainbolt and Grover Cleveland Rainbolt planted
an “award-winning” garden. Each year they’d grow corn, green beans, tomatoes,
cucumbers, green peppers, cabbage, fresh mint, and much, much more. But best of
all…they grew rhubarb. My grandmother was the best rhubarb pie baker in the
county, which was proven by the stash of blue ribbons she kept
“inconspicuously” in an old Ball canning jar on the windowsill. Oh pshaw, she’d
blush. Those old things? I’m just saving them for quilt scraps. She even
made her own piecrust — an art she passed on to me (for which my husband is
eternally grateful). Come to think of it, the quality of our grandmother’s
rhubarb pie was one of the few things my brother and I ever agreed on when we
were kids.
Lunchtime was a real event at her house, especially since my mother
worked, which meant I’d usually settle for baloney or tuna sandwiches at home.
And besides, Mom insisted I was too young to stay by myself. I wonder what
she’d think if she knew my “babysitter brother” threatened, on a regular basis,
to hang me by my heels out his second-story bedroom window. I overlooked that
since we always managed to arrive in Mamaw May’s kitchen just as she was
filling the table with bowls of mashed potatoes swimming in real butter, pinto
beans seasoned with country ham, stewed okra, sliced tomatoes — still warm from
the garden sun — and cucumbers smothered with onions. Although peas weren’t a
favorite of mine back then, I enjoyed the days I watched my grandfather
gracefully eat them with a table knife. He’d somehow manage to fill the entire
length of the knife with little round peas, then tilt back his head and let
them slide into his mouth. I tried this once, to my grandmother’s dismay, and
ended up spending the better part of the afternoon picking peas up off the
linoleum floor.
More exciting were the August days we’d spend together
at the Harrison County Fair playing bingo. Come to think of it, I probably
acquired my taste for gambling — without the risk of losing much money — from
her. We’d sit for hours under a dusty tent on the Midway, playing two and three
cards at a time, and competing for valuable prizes. I suppose it must’ve
seemed strange that I preferred playing bingo with my grandmother to riding on
the Ferris wheel or the tilt-a-whirl with my friends. I can still remember the
excitement of winning a rainbow-striped pitcher and matching iced-tea glasses
to proudly present to my mother. After all these years, I’m still not sure
whether the tears in her eyes were from joy at the sight of my gift, or from
wondering where in the world she was going to store another set of worthless
glassware.
My grandmother lived well into her 70’s, but in my family, that’s like being struck down in the prime of life. She should’ve lived at least ten more years, but a freak auto accident was responsible for her early decline in health. My main regret is that, because she died when I was in my teens ― I wasn’t able to truly appreciate and enjoy her company in my adult years. Still, I learned some valuable lessons. For instance, the best piecrust is made with vinegar. Yes…vinegar. And if we’re persistent, the true bingo professionals, like us, will beat the socks off the amateurs every time.
But the most important thing she taught me, is that
sometimes, especially on a steamy, Southern Indiana
evening, it’s best just to sit on the front porch and rock gently back and
forth in the swing.
Add a slice of warm,
rhubarb pie…and it’s perfect.
Mary Cunningham ©2007
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