Tag Archives: remembrance

Sundays of My Childhood

29 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in Memories

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In the sweltering heat of southern summers, there was somewhat of a Sunday afternoon tradition at my grandparents’ house of putting small children down to nap on a pallet. A pallet was a homemade quilt folded over once or twice, depending on the number of grandchildren needing rest. Nearby, would be an oscillating fan, giving off a cool breeze as it turned your way. And while children napped, grownups would spend the afternoon in conversation until time for supper.

The Sunday noontime meal usually included both fried chicken and country ham. Mama and Papa had chickens and a smoke house where Papa cured hams. The table was heavy with bowls of vegetables from their garden. Desserts came in threes and you didn’t have to choose. Mama brought you a plate with some of each one; maybe two kinds of pie and a slice of cake. Once when Mama proudly brought a plate of desserts to a guest eating with us, he shook his head and said he couldn’t possibly eat all that and to please just give him one of the desserts. I can still see Mama’s face as she looked from him to the dessert plate in puzzlement. Foolish man to turn away the wares of a champion baker!

Before nap time and conversation, the table was cleared and the food carried from the dining room back to the stove. There it would be covered and put in the oven or left on top of the stove with the pot’s lids covering the “vittles,” as my grandfather called them.That wonderful repast would wait there for us to enjoy again for supper. And we didn’t always warm it up; rather, it might be spooned onto plates and eaten at room temperature. There was Sunday night church to attend, you see, so tasks were kept to a minimum. Mama’s cooking had gone on the day before or very early Sunday morning.

The memory of my grandparents’ table groaning with food and a fan cooling children on pallets are treasured memories. If I close my eyes and listen intently, I can almost hear the hum of that fan as it traveled from left to right and feel the cool breezes it provided on a hot Sunday afternoon.

As children of the 40s and 50s, we enjoyed simple pleasures and much security. We felt with our parents and grandparents in charge, no harm could come to us. We were protected from things we did and did not know. We played uncomplicated games of jack rocks and marbles, hop scotch and jump rope. We might search for four-leaf clovers or make necklaces and bracelets by typing clovetogether the long stems of the white clovers. My grandparents had an elephant ear plant that was profuse with huge leaves and long stems. Mama would break one off for each of us and we would pretend the leaves were umbrellas to fend off the sun or rain. Imagination in that day was a part of every game we played.

I think we need these memories as we age and that accounts for why we reminisce so much in our senior years. Rituals like Sunday family dinners and naps on pallets gave us uncomplicated days. Their recall brings smiles and appreciation for what we then took for granted.

Whoever thought things would change like they have? Ours was a world that made sense and gave hope for our futures. Maybe it is sheer foolishness, but somehow I believe that if we could take our children and grandchildren back to the way things were when we grew up, they would actually enjoy and want it. What do you think?

Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring, and integrity, they think of you.

                                                       — H. Jackson Brown, Jr. 

 

The Best Christmases of All

08 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by in Celebrate Christmas

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There was only one thing my grandparents wanted each year for Christmas—for all their children to be home at once. That was the gift that brought tears to Papa’s eyes and radiance to Mama’s face. All seven children home with spouses and children. I think it was what gave all of us the best of Christmases.

Their house was humble in appearance. A white frame house Papa had built onto as need required. My mother and I were the reason for one addition. When Daddy went to war and I was just months old, Papa brought us there to live with them. It was a house made for practicality and not show.

At Christmastime, the multi-colored lights on the tree shone through the living room window, beckoning us home. Cars parked on the narrow street up and down both sides for a block. Neighbors never minded; they were invited to join us and some always did.

Each time the front door opened laughter and greetings of welcome rang out. It was good to be together again. Mama and Papa would stand just inside the door waiting to embrace every family member and friend. Papa would chuckle with delight because his “chillun” had come home.

Packages were stowed under the tree and dishes of food taken on to the kitchen to help Mama feed the multitude. She had cooked for days and if no one had brought a single thing, there would still have been plenty. After the tree and kitchen visits there was one more stop before joining the men for talking or the women for getting the food ready. That stop was to find Mama’s large blue granite roasting pan. For in that pan would be the one dish we had looked forward to all year—Mama’s cornbread dressing. I guess we just needed a little reassurance that it was there waiting for us.

Christmas at the Spencer’s was for love and sharing and the larger the crowd the better. Boyfriends, girlfriends, in-laws, great aunts and uncles, our pastor and his family, our small town’s highly revered doctor and his wife. Everyone was welcome. We sat everywhere, even in the bedrooms. And the food was like the loaves and fish that Jesus blessed, it seemed to keep replenishing itself.

One thing always happened in that house before any meal was had and that was a prayer of thanksgiving. At Christmastime, everyone migrated to the spot where Papa and Mama stood and a hush fell over the house. If Papa said the prayer he thanked God for every person there—and he cried. Papa couldn’t pray without crying because his heart was ever grateful to God for His blessings, and when Papa spoke to the Lord, his love for Him spilled out emotionally.

Money couldn’t buy the blessing of having been born into the family of Jim and Dulcie Spencer. I am indeed rich in heritage. I thank God for giving me two of His finest creations as grandparents and for the many memories of Christmases past on Campbell Street in Medina, Tennessee. Papa and Christmas 1979 001

A Father and Daughter’s Communion

30 Sunday Nov 2014

Posted by in communion with God

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As they slowly walked the aisle to the place where they would kneel to receive communion, the father would bend down from time to time and whisper to his little girl. She would nod understandingly, holding close to his side. Then when a place was made available for them to kneel, they went forward and did so, the father again speaking quietly with his child.

The pastor moved to them with a loaf of bread and cup of wine (grape juice) and for what was probably her first time, she took the sacraments and received the grace of our Lord. As Jesus instructed that we do (Luke 22:19), this sweet child took part in remembering Jesus and the sacrifice of His blood that redeems us.  Father and daughter lingered for a moment with heads bowed, then slowly rose and made their way back to where their journey had begun.

It has been ten or more years, but I remember those tender moments as if they happened only yesterday. Watching that young father point the way for his daughter to a relationship with our Lord was a memory worth holding onto. And if it held fast in my memory, how even more it would have held in that small child’s. She would remember that her dad lived out Proverbs 22:6 which says “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it” (NIV). I witnessed the Word of God in action.

A Tribute to Betty Jo

29 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by in Christian service

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I closed my eyes and could see her smiling and filled with joy.  She had made it home and she did it with courage and determination. Betty Jo Spencer Replogle completed her earth’s journey and at God’s perfect moment, He lifted her away from the world’s burdens and into heaven’s triumph.

“Jo” was the youngest of my mother’s seven siblings. Just eight years older than I, she seemed more a sister than aunt. Jo was born after my parents married and Daddy liked to tease her that he had been in the family longer than she had. That never failed to bring on one of her quick, easy laughs.

We all loved the laughter that peppered her conversations.  Jo had a great sense of humor even through tough times—and she had many. Her body knew several serious and unusual diseases, and for the most part, she coped with them as if they were nothing more than a common cold. Certainly, as with all of us, there were other tests in her life, but I believe it was the trials coupled with a faith which steadily grew that gave her the fortitude to cope as she did.

Jim and Dulcie Spencer’s children were, and are, all good people. The steadfast faith of my grandparents was imparted and rooted well in each one of their children. Jo lived out their legacy in her 78 years by remaining true to her own salvation story. She never forgot the way to God’s house and when she and her family were to be there; she never forgot how to trust in the Almighty.  She was a faithful daughter, wife, mother, and grandmother. Her concerns were at all times focused on her family and doing all she could to make their life good.

Thought she seemed too young to leave us, wishing her to stay, as sick as she was, would have been nothing but selfish. The last time I saw her, I knew she was making the transition home. I saw in her the same thing I saw in Mother before she died: she was in an intermediate place. Jo was still in her body, but her spirit had caught sight of heaven and eagerness drew her in that direction. Like Mother, it seemed in those last days when you spoke to Jo, you could call her back for a moment, but you couldn’t hold her for long. She saw Beulah Land. She saw the end of a long and hard struggle and a place where family awaited. She saw a place where Jesus beckoned.

By way of a recording made years ago, her youngest son sang “He Touched Me” at the funeral. The beginning words speak of being “shackled by a heavy burden” and soon declare, “then the hand of Jesus touched me, and now I am no longer the same.”  For Jo, her shackling was a body weighed down and rapidly failing. The hand of Jesus touched her as He drew her into heaven and there placed a crown on her head with the words, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” And truly, her life is so longer the same; she has reached Heaven’s glory.

When Papa Jim, Jo’s father and my grandfather, died, Mama Dulcie noted in a journal, “Jim went home to be with Jesus today.” That’s what Betty Jo Spencer Replogle did on December 24, 2013. She went home to be with Jesus.

We thank You, Lord, for her time with us and for her witness to Your presence in her life. BETTY_JO_S_GRADUATION_PICTU

O Beulah land, sweet Beulah land!

As on thy highest mount I stand,

I look away across the sea

Where mansions are prepared for me

And view the shining glory shore

My heaven, my home forever more.

            John R. Sweney (1837–1899)

A Pot of Peas

20 Wednesday Jun 2012

Posted by in family

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Fresh peas were on the stove and needing my attention: a little more water, some seasoning, a few gentle stirs. As I lifted the lid and tended them, I had a flashback of years gone by.

I saw my grandmother’s kitchen and remembered the constant aroma of good food. Food cooked with skill and love, food that never disappointed. How many times did I walk to my grandparents’ house after school and help myself to peas and cornbread from the oven? Before we were taught it was dangerous to leave food sitting out, food was commonly kept in the oven between the noon and night meals. Her peas were so delicious I didn’t bother with reheating, just filled a plate with room temperature field peas and helped myself to a piece of cornbread, and indulged. If I close my eyes and think really hard, I can still taste them.

Staring down at my boiling peas, I moved on to my mother’s kitchen and saw them there. There was a certain pot of cast iron with a yellow lid that she used for cooking peas. I thought about picking the peas, then shelling them from a huge white dishpan. What wasn’t for immediate use was processed for the freezer.

Some things cannot be reproduced by assembly line companies, and for me, field peas is one of them. So through my years of cooking for a family, there have always been fresh peas on my table or those of my own preserving. Are mine as good as my mother’s or grandmother’s? Close, but not as good as theirs.

Flashbacks are bittersweet. Things that will never be again can bring melancholy. Remembering times around a family table with parents and grandparents no longer living kind of puts an ache in the heart. It all happened so fast – losing them and growing this old. But if I can move past the sadness and be grateful for those who left me with this legacy, it gets better. I always, always loved to cook and I know it was because of the high standard set before me. I can honor Dulcie Spencer and Louise Spencer Luffman today by carrying on the tradition of preparing in my own kitchen the very best I can do, and never just “making do.”

Father, I give you thanks for these two women who taught me the art of cooking. May I never forget the time and love that went into every dish they put on the table. And, may I never fail to remember the other lesson they taught me about food: always share what you have.