By Jan Penton Miller
Columnist

My cousins, siblings, and I ran in and out of the old farmhouse, screen door
slamming as we whizzed by. My grandmother never seemed to notice the noise.
Every now and again she would fetch a flyswatter or two and ask us if we wanted to
take care of the pesky ones buzzing about.
She never scolded that I can remember. Mamaw seemed to understand the pent up
energy of children and took everything in stride. When I think of her I can still see
her faded blue eyes twinkling at the antics of her grandchildren.
“Mamaw, we’re hungry! Something sure smells good. How long before we eat?”
“Wash your hands, children. It’s almost ready. Come on in and find a seat.”
The smell of fried chicken and biscuits drifted through the open window of the
dining room causing my mouth to water. I ran with the others to dutifully give my
hands a quick wash before settling down for Sunday dinner. In reality, Mamaw
cooked such large meals that every day seemed like a special treat.
Most of the food on the table came from the farm. Papaw and Mamaw raised
vegetables of all kinds. Tomatoes fresh from the garden had a taste far better that
anything bought in a store. They almost melted in my mouth when I popped a shiny
skinned red bauble in. The chicken on the platter had been scratching around the
farmyard only hours before.
The plates of steaming apple fritters never failed to delight. The apple trees out by
the barn along with my grandmother’s busy hands brought smiles of satisfaction to
the hungry brood time after time. When I think of it, the menu never changed much,
but in those days we never thought of wanting something different. We ate
whatever my Mamaw cooked, and it was always fresh, hot, and seasoned with love.
Papaw asked the blessing before each meal. He was not long-winded or particularly
eloquent. He just thanked the good Lord for our food and asked that it be blessed to
nourish our bodies. My Papaw knew that God was in charge of all the things that
brought a good crop. If the rain didn’t come at the right time an entire season’s work
could be lost. It was this knowledge, I think, that helped my grandfather to
remember that all life is precious and a gift.
After our meal the adults would settle down with coffee and speak is hushed tones.
Some of the younger children settled in for a nap. Occasionally, I would nod off

myself, but I tried and tried to keep my eyes open so I wouldn’t miss a tidbit of
conversation. After a few minutes the older kids were off and running again. We
usually didn’t slow down until the hue of the evening sky began to deepen and our
parents called us in.
Weekends spent on my grandparent’s farm seemed perfect, and I wanted to recreate
these special moments for my own children and grands. The problem is my precious
ones live from one end of the country to the other. My plan of having my table filled
with grandchildren looks different from what I imagined.
I have two adorable grandsons; not quite the brood I anticipated. And it’s a rare
thing to have them both at my table at once. Many things are different, but one thing
is the same. Everything served is seasoned with love.