Thank you to WeeWeed who is providing our MBOB post today – Sharon

If you live long enough, you have the dreaded (but normal) task of cleaning out a beloved family member’s personal items when they die.  Such was mine earlier this year when my beloved Momma left us. 

Lo and behold, when I cleaned out some files – teh Momma wrote poems, songs, and some stories of her life.  This is one of her MBOBs. 

Imagine my surprise when cleaning out her drawers – nearly all of the items in “Granny’s purse” were there, carefully and lovingly saved, as were Grandpa’s glasses and his “Fraternity Of” ring.

This is one of her stories and Sharon has been kind enough to share it. ~ W2

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When I was a little girl my grandparents sometimes had the questionable joy of keeping me for six weeks while my mother, a single parent, attended summer school sessions to keep her teaching certificate current.  Since they lived in the small village of Westbrook, TX, and we lived in metropolitan Pampa my social life was considerably curtailed.  Some of my best summer memories lie in that small Texas town.

“Land o’Goshen, all the water in the ocean wouldn’t get you clean today,” my grandma would say after an afternoon of making mudpies down by the barn.

“My stars n’ garters, you’ve got bird nests in your hair,” she’d say.  Guess SHE didn’t recognize a fairy princess when she saw one!

“Good grief ‘n little Ned, has there been a hippopotamus in this bed??” after my nights of dream filled slumbers.

“My land, child, have you got a hollow leg?” after my third peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Now – picture a dirty, bird nest haired, hollow legged associate of hippopotami.  That was me at five. That was the summer a traveling evangelist arrived in town with a tent show.  It was the only social event of the summer so naturally we all attended every evening.  We sang all the solid, sturdy hymns of fundamental Christianity – “Rock Of Ages,” “Stars In My Crown,” “Onward Christian Soldiers,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.”

I loved the music and the singing – it was the preaching that lost my interest. If I had a “soul” somewhere I couldn’t see it, so I figured if I lost it no one would notice. But… it was a matter of vital importance to that preacher man. During lengthy orations he would wave his arms wildly, pound on his lecturn and walk around shouting and pointing at the top of the tent and then down at the dirt “floor.”  Since this behavior was never tolerated at home I fully expected my Granny to march up to him, grab his arm and give him “a piece of her mind.”  I myself had received many of these and often wondered what she would do when her mind was all gone…

She didn’t march up there, though – she merely smiled faintly and murmured amen softly.  My Granny had raised five children and buried three, so she came well prepared for just about anything.  She carried a black no nonsense leather purse the size of a small suitcase, stuffed with most interesting things. When I started squirming and shifting with boredom she’d hand it to me with a finger to her lips for silence. I’d slowly unzip it, anticipating a king’s treasure.

First, the “good” hanky – a work of art with lace edging and embroidered flowers, faintly scented with lemon verbena. (I haven’t smelled verbena since we cleaned out  Granny’s drawers after her death.) This hanky was NOT of a functional nature, there were two plain cotton squares folded neatly at the bottom for that. This hanky was for show, to look through its lace at the people around us and see them, dream-like, with no wrinkles or moles or little round eyeglasses.

It was for pressing the nose into, envisioning beautiful ladies in bell shaped, bright colored dresses gliding around the floors in the arms of dashing mustachioed men wearing dress swords like I’d seen in the movie my mother took me to. And then examining the dainty bluebonnets embroidered in every corner, and remembering the miles and miles of them blooming along the highways in a Texas spring.

The hanky was laid aside for later use.

I explored further – a dinner napkin contained two large homemade sugar cookies.  My mouth watered in anticipation but wisely I also put these aside for later consumption – I could tell by the hallelujahs and arm waving this was going to be a long night.  Ah – here on the side – one of my favorite things; the little hand mirror.It’s made of sterling silver, heavily embossed with Granny’s name in flowery script. I never knew who gave her that mirror.  She would never tell and Grandpa always frowned at me when I asked.  I don’t think I ever saw my Granny look into a mirror in her life (except maybe once or twice to straighten her hat.)  She used no makeup of any kind and wore her hair in a plain bun at the back of her neck.  She combed the waist length grey hair out in the evening and braided it into a single loose pigtail for bed.  In the mornings she combed it out again and twisted it into the bun.  She had never had it cut.

I pulled the mirror out carefully and examined it’s beautiful back, my fingers tracing the raised design of roses and grape ivy – symbols of love and fidelity, Granny said.  Well, I knew what love was…. I loved Momma, and Granny and Grandpa.  Sometimes I loved my brothers, but not very often – hateful things.  Fidelity I was sorta unsure of… I think it meant if I loved Superman, I wasn’t supposed to love Capt. Marvel, too – but I did.

I turned the mirror over, carefully wiped the fingerprints off with my dress tail and examined my face it.  The long, deep scratch down the center of my nose was healing and had a large scab on it.  As I reached up to feel the edges to see if it might be loose enough to lift my Grandpa’s hand met mine and restrained it.  I glanced up at him and his frown said, “no – leave it alone.”  I sighed and examined it further – a souvenir of “Old He’s” displeasure at being dressed in a baby bonnet and wheeled in a doll carriage.

“Leave that cat alone,” Granny said, “When he twitches his tail like that he’s mad and getting ready to scratch.”  Well, I didn’t, and he did.  Granny said he was fifty cat-years old and didn’t cotton much to kids.  If I could catch him again I’d scratch him back but I never will. “Old He” spent most of his time on the roof – I’d hear him running back and forth up there at night.  Sometimes I’d see him draped around the lightning rod napping in the daytime and I’d call Kitty, Kitty – but he wouldn’t even open his eyes.

I opened my mouth in the mirror to examine the large hole where a front tooth had been until last night.  My tongue couldn’t seem to leave it alone and kept seeking it out. I looked up into the hole and saw tiny white edges poking out.  A new tooth coming in, Granny said.  I wondered why Grandpa didn’t just grow new teeth too, instead of keeping his in a cup of water by his bed.

I stuck my tongue out and examined all those little lumps on it.  When I first noticed them I asked Granny if my tongue had measles.  She said no – those are what make things have different tastes like watermelon and butter beans.  If I didn’t have them I couldn’t tell what things tasted like which would be fine with me on nights we have okra, but even then I’d recognize THAT by the slimy feel.  “Child, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it but at least taste it just to see,” she’d say.  Ugh!!

Looking behind me in the mirror I could see Jackie Peters with his folks.  I hated Jackie Peters, he’s a nasty red-headed boy who’s eight and pulls my pigtails ‘til I cry anytime he catches me out in the alley.  I stick my tongue out as far as I can, and he sticks his out back at me.  Grandpa lowers my mirror-holding hand and shakes his head disapprovingly.  Grandpa doesn’t know what a rat that little snake is.

The mirror put aside, I pull out the little beaded bag – inside a needle stuck in a small spool of white thread and a tiny pair of scissors.  Granny always went around prepared for emergencies.  I spooled off a length of thread, cut it off, tied the ends together and tried to make a Jacob’s Ladder like Grandpa showed me.  It wasn’t working out so I nudged him and pointed with my chin.  He looked down and pointed to the right fingers.  I began again, still wrong.  He took the thread and was showing me the right way, when Granny’s eyes pinned us both.  He sighed, balled up the thread and stuck it in his shirt pocket and I returned to the purse.

Two small packets of B.C. Powders (for the headaches I give her, she says,) a small leather coin purse with change in it.  Yes, she says, you may hold the quarter for the collection plate.  A small bottle of “TOILET WATER” to make you smell nice, she said.  That time my ugly brother fell in the toilet sure didn’t make him smell nice.  Grandma made him bathe in a washtub on the back porch and boiled his clothes, besides.  Why would she have a bottle of it in her purse??

There’s a letter in the purse, from Momma, Granny said.  Yes, she misses you and sends you kisses – see the little xxx’s – those are written kisses.  I hold the letter tightly – it does make her seem a little closer.  Granny says she’ll be here on the bus in two more weeks.  That’s a long time away.  Will she know me with my scratched nose, missing tooth and the “foot I’ve grown” this summer?  Granny says she will.

My butt is numb.  I shift and stretch and yawn – Granny looks at me and I slump back and reach into the purse.  Here’s what I’ve been looking for – two large tortoise shell hairpins as long as my hand.  Granny always carries spares to keep her bun tidy.  They make wonderful little people.  Dressed in the lacy hanky now they dip and sway in an intricate dance across my knees.  Then they courageously scale my arm climbing the most treacherous of mountains.  Maybe they’d prefer to sleep on my lap covered with the hanky while I have a cookie.  I’m rather tired and hungry myself so I eat the cookies in nibbling little bites while jiggling my knees to rock the hairpin people to sleep.  Granny’s cookies are so good, even if pieces do get hung where my tooth hole is.

“That preacher man sure has a set of lungs to him,” my Grandpa whispers to me.  I smile at him.  He pats his lap and lays his arm on the back of the chair.  I gratefully slide my head over on his lap.  I’ll look in Granny’s purse some more in a minute, after I rest.  Or, maybe tomorrow night.

Signed copies of Mailboxes and Old Barns ($18/including shipping) can be ordered by emailing [email protected]. Payment can be made by PayPal or check to Sharon Torgerson, P O Box 513, Woodburn, OR 97071.