I miss my grandmother. In a perfect world that wouldn't happen. Grandma Moon (my paternal grandmother whose real last name was Mullins) has been gone for over twenty years, but she's still very much alive in my memory. As a child, I was always fascinated with her; she was so very different from my maternal grandmother who tended to much more formal. Grandma Moon was half Choctaw, and she's the one that truly introduced me to nature. Many summer afternoons, when my grandfather (nicknamed Mr. Moon by the men of the sawmill where he was a foreman) came in from "the mill," we'd all climb into his his un-air-conditioned pickup and head to a creek or river. Fishing on the river was usually relatively easy; we just sat on the bank and fished. Fishing on a creek was an entirely different story as my grandmother was never content to stay where she "didn't get a bite." I would follow her through thickets and high creek beds looking for the perfect spot that would produce the bounty of catfish she was looking for. I climbed creek banks that I would never allow my children or grandchildren to climb, but at the time I didn't realize I should be frightened, especially since I didn't know how to swim. But's it's not really all the fishing stories that remind me of my grandmother. It's a simple crockery bowl that forms my central image of her.
It's funny how seeing something as simple as an old, crockery bowl can flood your thoughts with memories. When I think of my grandmother, I think of her biscuit bowl. This large, beige crockery bowl was kept filled with flour under her kitchen sink, covered only with a dishtowel. Today, keeping a bowl-full of flour under the sink would be unthinkable; we're all such germaphobes now. Twice a day, at breakfast and lunch, my grandmother would pull out the bowl and make biscuits. It was a a process that I loved to watch. First, she would remove the towel and carefully smooth out a "well" in the center of the flour. Next, she would scope out a handful of lard (yes, real lard! It was wonderful!) and add buttermilk. Finally, a few pinches of salt and baking powder were added. After using her hands to squish all these ingredients together, incorporating just enough of the flour from the bowl to make a perfect dough, individual biscuits would be pinched off, one at a time, rolled into a ball, and placed and turned in the oiled biscuit pan (also containing melted lard). It was a symphony of creation! She never measured anything, but her biscuits were always perfect and melted in your mouth (even as they clogged your arteries!).
My grandmother tried to teach me how to make biscuits; now I wish I had paid more attention. My grandmother was like that bowl in many ways. She was tough; she knew how to cultivate a vegetable garden, make quilts, and skin a catfish--all fascinating in the eyes of a child. Like the crockery bowl, she had emerged from the fire of life that made her almost indestructable. Even her weathered skin resembled the rough texture of the bowl. Like the bowl, she was rarely the center of attention; she preferred to allow others to claim the spotlight while she worked tirelessly behind the scenes. However, just as we all looked forward to her pulling the old crockery bowl from under the sink, we all looked forward to having her care for us; we knew it was a labor of love. She worked hard to make sure we all turned out just as perfectly as the biscuits she baked twice a day. Like the bowl, she was prized and loved; everyone loved to go to Grandma Moon's house. It was a place of freedom, even though there were boundaries. We made mud pies, tried to catch "crawdaddies," and ate dirt and swallowed watermelon seeds because she told us doing so would cause watermelons to grow in our stomaches.
Today, that bowl is one of my most prized possessions. It's not much to look at, but it's priceless to me. I can only pray that my grandchildren view me in the same way--as a grandmother who will always work tirelessly to make sure each and every one of them know how much they are loved. I miss my grandmother. In a perfect world, those we love would always be with us.
