N.B. I have changed Mrs. Wilson's name to shield her family's identity.
Some of life’s smallest events, in circumstances least expected, teach its biggest lessons. A homemade cherry pie, made by an elderly woman, taught me more about honor and respect – the basic human need to contribute and be valued – than any learned teacher ever could.
Let me take you back to a simpler place and time, when I just a young boy living in a tiny town, nestled in the hills of the Arkansas Ozarks. It was an era of un-air-conditioned country churches, where elderly women who smelled faintly of lavender, fanned themselves with funeral home fans, and young boys dangled their legs from wooden church benches, sang “Jesus Loves Me,” and daydreamed during the long winded sermon about the upcoming Sunday dinner, that noontime, southern repast not to be confused with supper, the evening meal.
My mother was a member of our small town church’s “food committee,” now a fading tradition from a different era. Composed of wives and mothers, the group mobilized each time an aging member of the congregation passed away. As the extended family of the departed loved one gathered to grieve, usually at the family home, the food committee contacted other members of the congregation to prepare food for the family.
I never gave it much thought; it was a deep and unquestioned part of life, as natural as fishing with my grandfather or playing in the woodpile. Then, when I was seven, my beloved grandmother died. (See What Really Matters.) Within hours, the small kitchen table of my grandparent’s house was heaped and groaning with food – fried chicken, ham, potato salad, green beans, cakes, and homemade pies.
As sad as I was that grandma would never kiss me again, it was the first time I ever had the chance to compare fried chicken recipes! I also saw some foods totally alien to me, ones far beyond our budget and economic reach. It was an extraordinary outpouring of support, made more noteworthy by the poverty of our small town community.
A few years later, it was my mother’s turn to chair the church’s food committee. On a cold winter day, we drove slowly from house to house in our aging AMC Rambler, picking up food, usually at the back door. At a time when seatbelts were largely unknown, and would have been ignored anyway, my job was to sit in the back seat and make sure the food did not spill or slide.
My father loved that two door Rambler, because beneath its humble exterior hid a 390 cubic inch V8 engine, and he took delight in the surprise on the faces of other drivers when he pulled out to pass their larger and seemingly more powerful vehicles. I suspect it was a poor man’s small way of saying, “I am more than I may seem.” (See A Taste of Sherbet.)
As I was musing on my mother’s frequent admonitions to my father that he should slow down when driving, she eased the car to a stop at a dilapidated old house. I blinked in surprise because I knew that the widow who lived in the house was almost eighty and nearly blind. She was too infirm to attend church, a shut-in in our southern vernacular, and I could barely remember the last time I had seen her. Leaning forward in the back seat toward my mama, I asked why we were stopping here.
As she opened the car door, she said, “Because Mrs. Wilson called me and insisted that I come get her cherry pie.” She said she’d tried to convince Mrs. Wilson that there were plenty of younger cooks willing and happy to help, but Mrs. Wilson had pleaded, “Please; I’m old, there’s not much I can do anymore, but I can do this.” I sat dumbfounded amidst the fried chicken and three bean salad, watching my mother walk toward the backdoor of the ramshackle house.
After a long delay, an old woman appeared, her gray hair pulled back in a bun, exposing a face wizened by age and a lifetime of toil. Wearing a long apron, both her hands and her back were bent by arthritis, and she walked with an unsteady gait in antiquated leather shoes. As she gently handed my mother the cherry pie, she unknowingly gave me something far more valuable, a life lesson that still echoes across the years, much like the lesson of plum jelly.
In my mind’s eye I can see her still, eyes dim, body bowed and battered, holding that cherry pie as an offering to the grieving, a sacrament to the future. Yet the indelible image is deeper, of a spirit uncertain but unbowed and strong in will.
To me, she was a small town hero, every bit Ulysses’ equal; she traveled little, but she left works of noble note – a family raised well in straitened circumstances. She strove to the end, and she did not yield to the vicissitudes of life. Alas, only I, no Tennyson, remain to tell her tale.
Not all heroes seek adventure in distant lands, nor are their stories chronicled in epic tales of ancient lore. Some hold cherry pies and wear tattered aprons flecked with flour.
The undying need for respect, to make a difference and to matter, regardless of circumstance, crosses cultures and generations. It was just a cherry pie, but it was much, much more.
I can’t do much, but I can do this. I’ll always remember and honor her memory. I hope you will too.
Love this! Reminds me of home.
Posted by: Sallie wright | March 07, 2016 at 06:02 PM