By Ronda Rich
It’s just a memory now. And, perhaps I won’t recall it precisely because of the decades that have passed but I will tell it as best I can.
I was what people used to call a “late in life child” so my siblings were much older. Ironically, my daddy and both sisters, the only three family members, all had children late in life. One sister had been suffering with various ailments so she was hospitalized. Suddenly, her pain became so intense that she was crying in agony. The doctor was called and, to everyone’s surprise, he announced that she was in the midst of childbirth.
When I was seven, my sister closest in age to me, married the handsomest man in five counties. I was the flower girl who wore a yellow dress that Mama made paired with dress socks trimmed in lace and yellow patent shoes.
The following year, my sister invited me to spend a week with them in the old farm house where my beautiful brother-in-law grew up. It was only eight miles from home but it was as exotic as going to Hawaii, as far as I was concerned.
At six, Mama started teaching me to sew. So, by the age of eight, I was somewhat good. In preparation, I made myself an entire week’s worth of new clothes that included dresses, shorts and tops. I was so excited.
During that week, my sister and I would go over to my brother-in-law’s grandmother’s house around 11:30 a.m. to help set the table for dinner, which country folks call the mid-day meal. Evening’s meal, mostly left over from dinner and covered with a white table cloth, was called supper.
Her sons called her “Mama” and her grandchildren, including my brother-in-law, my sister, others and I, called her “Mama Nix”, her last name.
Every day, Mama Nix began cooking dinner as soon as she cleaned up from a hearty breakfast that she had risen early to prepare.
See, Mama’s Nix’s family were all farmers. They needed strong nourishment to get to noontime. All morning she cooked an astounding meal: fried chicken or roast beef, okra (which we call okrie), creamed corn, mashed potatoes, black-eyes peas, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, biscuits and cornbread. To quench their thirst, she poured glasses of sweet tea, milk or buttermilk. Dessert was homemade cake and fruit cobblers. It was a table laden with delicious food but its main purpose was to sustain the men folks with substance until they finished their farm work when the sun went down and the moon began to peep over the horizon.
Those days I seem to remember well, especially a pair of lavender colored shorts and a coordinating white tee shirt. I set the table with her ancient dishes and folded napkins.
Mama Nix pulled her white hair back in a bun, held in place with long hair pins. Always, she wore an apron, typical of the Appalachian foothills. She rarely smiled and she worked hard every moment she was awake. She lived in a small, white boarded house that was perfectly cleaned and neat. Her dinner table was covered with a lace table cloth.
At noon, her sons and my brother-in-law piled in for a dinner table laden with food. Usually, they were covered in the dust or the mud of the red clay that they fought endlessly. They washed up and came in, respectfully, to Mama’s Nix’s table.
After grace, they passed the bounty of food, taking heaping helpings. Mama Nix took seriously the feeding of her family.
She died years later but I am grateful that I saw those noontime meals and that the memory lingers sweetly.
These days a grandson lives in that precious house. And, though, I’ve only met him once, it means so much that Mama Nix’s home continues to be loved by a member of her family.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell Mystery series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.