Today is my birthday, and we’re not eating cake. Instead, my mother opens the oven door to reveal a freshly baked peach cobbler. That’s how my mother celebrates birthdays – the honoree picks out his or her favorite meal, and she cooks. The smell fills the room: warm, juicy peaches nestled under a buttery, golden crust, complete with a hint of cinnamon. This aroma is only a hint of the goodness that is to come.
I get a corner helping, served in a bowl. There is no ice cream, just pure peachy bliss. I grab my fork and prepare to dig into the cobbler, and I gaze at this utensil for a split second. I realize something…no big deal, really, but this fork doesn’t match the rest of our silverware. I’m surprised I haven’t noticed this before when washing dishes. How did this fork come to our possession? I ponder the mystery of the fork for a moment, but I quickly return my attention to the piping hot peach cobbler that seems to be calling my name. The fork and I make quick work of my serving.
A few weeks later, I visit my grandfather. I deliver some chicken and dumplings from my mother. He invites me to sit down with him at the kitchen counter while he eats, and I know better than to refuse.
“Do you want some?” he asks.
“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten,” I reply.
We discuss the weather and its effects on the greens growing along the fence. He asks me about school and work, and I engage him in the highlights from both. He tells me about his day: the usual breakfast at Hardee’s, the grass he cut, the vegetables he harvested from the garden. He points to a big pan in the sink, full of greens. They’re soaking now. I think he washes them seven or eight times, picking off all the stems. He hates the stems.
I’m thinking about the mustard greens, when I notice my grandfather eating his supper. He’s using a fork, but there’s a spoon lying next to his plate. He doesn’t use the spoon. It is there simply because it is supposed to be there. This spoon, it so happens, matches that fork from my birthday helping of peach cobbler. My curiosity forces me to pick up the spoon and inquire.
“Papa, where did you get this spoon? It doesn’t match the rest of your silverware,” I say as I twirl the spoon as if it were a baton.
“Well, I reckon that belonged to Mrs. Gandy,” he answers. Mrs. Gandy is my grandmother’s mother. “It must have gotten mixed in with our things when she moved in with us.”
I barely remember those days, my great-grandpa living in the nursing home in Northport and my great-grandmother, who I called “Greatmom,” living with my grandparents. I was only in preschool then. Greatmom died when I was four; my memories of her mainly come from photographs. Grandpa died about a year later. I remember that more vividly. He was buried next to Greatmom, close to the back fence of the cemetery behind Pleasant Hill Cumberland Presbyterian. It’s not even a mile from the home they shared together, the home Grandpa built with his own two hands. I can still see the foot his grave, covered in flowers. There was a tiny stake in the ground that held a placard: Robert H. Gandy, aged 86 years.
I think about my great-grandparents and this fork and spoon. I wonder what happened to the whole set. Were they a wedding present? Were they an item purchased with those Green Stamps? How many meals had been eaten with these utensils? Where were the other pieces?
It’s October now, the third Saturday, to be precise. We’re in Eutaw for the annual Wilson Family Reunion. Our families always assemble in Pleasant Hill’s fellowship hall. Before we eat, we spend a few minutes outside, roaming the cemetery. I have my camera this year, using the zoom lens to take pictures of the headstones. It’s part of my mother’s family history project.
I’m not entirely enthused with all the genealogy. It’s hot today, and these fire ant beds are scattered around mimicking the haphazard formations of the graves. You’d think I’d be immensely bored with it all – the family history, the heat, and the ants – but I’m actually spellbound. We slowly meander back through the cemetery, snapping pictures, cleaning headstones, making our way back to the food.
I’m not really hungry today, and it’s not for lack of food. I tell my mother, “The good thing about coming to these family reunions is that it’s all family cooking. You don’t have to worry about getting anything weird.” She knows what I’m implying: it’s all Southern food…nary a Yankee dish in sight. This is not to mention the desserts that almost outnumber the meats and vegetables. I see Aunt Bobbie made Aunt Ola’s Apple Roll. She always claims it’s not the same, and she’s right. It’s not the same, but it’s a nice reminder of the woman we all loved so dearly.
The real reason I’m not so hungry is the anticipation. We’re going out to my great-great-grandmother’s old house after the reunion. Since she never married, Aunt Ida lived in the house after her mother died, but Ida’s been in the nursing home for so long now. The family is holding a raffle today to divide up the belongings. All of the “grandkids” – my great aunts and uncles – get to draw. My mother gets to draw in my grandmother’s place; they think it’s only fair. There are sixteen in all – the exact number of quilts that are laid out on the table. This means we’ll be getting one, and I’m excited.
Several of us roam around the house while the others partake in the drawing numbers. We talk about those quilts. I remember my mother telling me how they decided who got the quilt after it was made. The family cat was placed in the middle of the quilt, and the family members each grabbed a corner. They bounced the quilt up and down with the cat on it, until the cat jumped off onto the floor. Whoever was closest to the cat when he jumped won the quilt.
I walk back to the kitchen, and I see all sorts of items sitting out for the raffle. I notice a fairly large piece of wood that has a curved piece of metal attached to it. The metal has small holes, and it looks as if the holes were poked out by hand with an awl. It takes me a second, but I realize what it is: a handmade grater.
Next to the grater is a large pile of silverware. The first piece that catches my eye is a knife…a knife that matches my mother’s fork and my grandfather’s spoon. At last, I’ve found another piece of the set! There are no other matching pieces. The whole stack seems to be odds and ends. I’m reminded of how the fork we have doesn’t match the rest of our silverware, nor does my grandfather’s spoon match the rest of his. This strikes me as funny.
“Isn’t it weird,” I say to one of my cousins, “how you always wind up with one utensil that isn’t yours?” I mean it as an observation – a rhetorical question – so I am surprised when he answers.
“You know how she got all that silverware, right?” he asks. I shake my head. “One day, there was a bus traveling down this road, out in front of the house. A suitcase fell off the top of that bus, and landed over in the ditch there. The bus never came back for it. Your great-great-grandmother, she fetched that suitcase, and she opened it to find all this silverware.”
I am amused by this story. We are all linked by these three utensils, and they weren’t even really ours in the first place. I have thought they were a family heirloom, and they’re not…but at the same time, they sort of are. I think of my family as this pile of silverware. Some don’t match, some are prettier than others, but we’re all family. Just as these utensils all have a purpose, so do we, each in our own ways.
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