Mike Couick
As I get older, I seem to recall more and more memories of my grandparents. When times become turbulent, like now, I particularly miss the reassuring rhythms and simplicity of their habits.
As I came to an age of awareness in the rural Upstate in the late 1960s and early 1970s, there was controversy swirling in Washington, a war in Southeast Asia and sometimes violent unrest over civil rights. But my grandparents’ homes and farms were havens from this turmoil and the fears that grew out of it.
My mom’s dad was a truck farmer. I particularly enjoyed two of his crops—watermelons and tomatoes. He pulled me into his operations. As he unloaded his trailer full of melons, I was tasked with washing them off and sorting them: Cannonballs, Sugar Babies and Charleston Greys. I culled the smallest Cannonballs from those to be sold and stacked them in the cool of the crawlspace of his house.
During hot days in July and August, my grandaddy had me fetch a couple of the “rejects.” Armed with his Old Timer pocketknife and a saltshaker, he would join us in the shade of an oak tree, leaning up against its trunk and looking up at clouds passing by with juice-smeared faces.
In my memory, his tomatoes are unrivaled—once slice big enough to cover your piece of white loaf bread. To each his own taste, but to this day I swear by salt, pepper and a lot of Duke’s mayonnaise.
My dad’s mom raised and cooked for nine children on a farm in the Upstate. It is said that she could go from hoeing cotton to baking biscuits all in the blink of an eye—she had to. She apparently got used to cooking for nearly a dozen family members because as I came along, there were always leftovers warming in the oven. Family lore is that no one ever found her with an empty oven between lunchtime and bedtime.
Even though I loved her fried chicken (to be found in the oven), my favorite spot in the kitchen was the “pie drawer.” It was just a regular drawer—one where you might store aluminum foil, wax paper and saranwrap. But for us grandkids, it was the treasure chest where leftover biscuits and sweet potato pies were to be found. Like magic, the drawer never seemed to be empty.
Spending the night with either set of grandparents was when you really saw their calm confidence. At my Dad’s parents, you slept with the windows open and were treated to an orchestra of tree frogs, whippoorwills, and other night creatures. If by chance my grandmother was caring for one of my younger cousins who was sick, you’d soon hear the rhythmic cadence of her rocking chair. A low hum would raise out of her chest and settle in her throat as she shared a favorite hymn.
At my mom’s parents’ home—another two-bedroom, one bath—I could hear my grandfather get ready for bed, shut off the lights and sink to his knees by his bed. I could not hear all of his conversation with his maker, but I did occasionally hear my name mentioned.
These memories left by my grandparents really resonate with me now—how they grew up and what they left behind. They came of age early in the 20th century. They lived through the Spanish Flu epidemic, the boll weevil, World Wars I & II and the Great Depression. Inevitably, they discovered their own secrets of simple living that gave them joy, whether in the kitchen or in the field. They provided us the foundation and built a legacy for their grandkids.
As I sometimes wrestle with my pillow when going to sleep now, I might try to listen for the “chink-chink-chink” of my grandfather’s hoe as he worked grass out of his row crops. Sweat drenched, tobacco juice running out of both corners of his mouth (he was a levelheaded man), he would sometimes pause and do a quick 360-degree inventory of all that was around him. Satisfied that all was OK, and that he was OK, he would start his music again: “chink-chink-chink.”
I’m sure you’ve got your own memories and stories about your grandparents that, like magic, bring you joy when you think about them. In these turbulent times, I encourage you to reflect on those memories and find peace in the rhythms of their simplicity, reassurance and love.
It will be another one of those gifts from them that will always be there.
As I get older, I seem to recall more and more memories of my grandparents. When times become turbulent, like now, I particularly miss the reassuring rhythms and simplicity of their habits.
As I came to an age of awareness in the rural Upstate in the late 1960s and early 1970s, there was controversy swirling in Washington, a war in Southeast Asia and sometimes violent unrest over civil rights. But my grandparents’ homes and farms were havens from this turmoil and the fears that grew out of it.
My mom’s dad was a truck farmer. I particularly enjoyed two of his crops—watermelons and tomatoes. He pulled me into his operations. As he unloaded his trailer full of melons, I was tasked with washing them off and sorting them: Cannonballs, Sugar Babies and Charleston Greys. I culled the smallest Cannonballs from those to be sold and stacked them in the cool of the crawlspace of his house.
During hot days in July and August, my grandaddy had me fetch a couple of the “rejects.” Armed with his Old Timer pocketknife and a saltshaker, he would join us in the shade of an oak tree, leaning up against its trunk and looking up at clouds passing by with juice-smeared faces.
In my memory, his tomatoes are unrivaled—once slice big enough to cover your piece of white loaf bread. To each his own taste, but to this day I swear by salt, pepper and a lot of Duke’s mayonnaise.
My dad’s mom raised and cooked for nine children on a farm in the Upstate. It is said that she could go from hoeing cotton to baking biscuits all in the blink of an eye—she had to. She apparently got used to cooking for nearly a dozen family members because as I came along, there were always leftovers warming in the oven. Family lore is that no one ever found her with an empty oven between lunchtime and bedtime.
Even though I loved her fried chicken (to be found in the oven), my favorite spot in the kitchen was the “pie drawer.” It was just a regular drawer—one where you might store aluminum foil, wax paper and saranwrap. But for us grandkids, it was the treasure chest where leftover biscuits and sweet potato pies were to be found. Like magic, the drawer never seemed to be empty.
Spending the night with either set of grandparents was when you really saw their calm confidence. At my Dad’s parents, you slept with the windows open and were treated to an orchestra of tree frogs, whippoorwills, and other night creatures. If by chance my grandmother was caring for one of my younger cousins who was sick, you’d soon hear the rhythmic cadence of her rocking chair. A low hum would raise out of her chest and settle in her throat as she shared a favorite hymn.
At my mom’s parents’ home—another two-bedroom, one bath—I could hear my grandfather get ready for bed, shut off the lights and sink to his knees by his bed. I could not hear all of his conversation with his maker, but I did occasionally hear my name mentioned.
These memories left by my grandparents really resonate with me now—how they grew up and what they left behind. They came of age early in the 20th century. They lived through the Spanish Flu epidemic, the boll weevil, World Wars I & II and the Great Depression. Inevitably, they discovered their own secrets of simple living that gave them joy, whether in the kitchen or in the field. They provided us the foundation and built a legacy for their grandkids.
As I sometimes wrestle with my pillow when going to sleep now, I might try to listen for the “chink-chink-chink” of my grandfather’s hoe as he worked grass out of his row crops. Sweat drenched, tobacco juice running out of both corners of his mouth (he was a levelheaded man), he would sometimes pause and do a quick 360-degree inventory of all that was around him. Satisfied that all was OK, and that he was OK, he would start his music again: “chink-chink-chink.”
I’m sure you’ve got your own memories and stories about your grandparents that, like magic, bring you joy when you think about them. In these turbulent times, I encourage you to reflect on those memories and find peace in the rhythms of their simplicity, reassurance and love.
It will be another one of those gifts from them that will always be there.