I have fond memories of those hot summer days back in the 70’s when my brothers, sisters and I were small children and visited my grandma almost every summer in Mount Holly New Jersey. Sometimes we took the out of town bus, and other times we traveled by car. Sometimes my grandma would come get us, but most times it was either one of my two aunts--Ruthanne or Sandra whom we call Sandy, who picked us up in their cars.
I distinctly remember the long journey across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, from Vine Street, down town Philadelphia, because car rides always made me sick. I always had to sit in the back by the window with it opened, and with a brown paper bag in my lap just in case I had to barf, which I sometimes did. But playing “punch car” helped kept my mind off my motion sickness, at least a little. That’s the game where you give someone a little punch whenever you saw one of those small Volkswagen cars on the road? Some people referred to them as Beatle Bugs. Anyway, that’s the game my brothers, sisters and I use to play--along our hour road trip--with our New Jerseyan cousins, whenever they came along for the ride.
But the anticipation of arriving to grandma’s house far outweighed my anxiety of the car ride there. You see, my grandma had built a reputation with her grandchildren for her tremendous home-baking goods. And we could hardly wait to get there to get a taste of her deep fried, juicy, southern crispy chicken--that would be tender enough to pull apart in strips with your fingers--and her soft, airy, hot, buttermilk, buttered biscuits that were as big as your hand. And for desert we would tackle grandma’s home-made, hot blueberry pie, straight from the oven, that we swore you could smell the sweet aroma of traveling in the air a mile away from her home.
Aside from the fond memories of traveling to grandma’s house and eating her good food are the fond memories of the good times I shared with my aunts Ruthann and Sandy.
My grandma was a very religious person and insisted that the girls wear skirts or dresses when visiting her, and preferably way below the knee. She had no television in her house, didn’t allow playing cards or any games that required using dice. So we had to make up our own games to play. And I remember my aunts teaching us--their nieces and nephews--how to play “two can” and “four can man.” We would have foot races, play jacks with pebbles, since my cousins didn’t have the real thing, and jump rope with an old rusty rope we had found in my grandpa’s junky, broken down, and mildew-smelly garage at the far back of the property. We found an old rusty bike in there, too. Sometimes we played dress up in the cellar--that always smelled of moth balls--wearing old moth ball-smelling clothes that no one knew exactly where they’d came from. And when my grandparents weren’t home--usually they would be at church--we would sneak and listen to music, sang and dance in the back room of the house.
But visiting grandma wasn’t just all about fun and games. Foot racing, jump rope, hop scotch and riding bikes up and down the long, barren road along side the house to the point of exhaustion, often got put on hold when grandma would call on her grandchildren to work the fruit and vegetable garden; we picked string beans, potatoes, tomatoes, watermelons, carrots, collard greens, cabbages, lettuce, strawberries, and other fruits and vegetables, like peaches, okra and corn on the cob, then sell them to passersby from grandma’s roadside stand. It would be so hot out there--usually temperatures in the high 90’s--that we would take turns working the stand, so that no one person would be standing in the sun too long. And at the end of a long hot day, we would sit on the edge of the pond at the side of the house and put our feet in the crisp, cold water to cool off.
Those were the days.
I distinctly remember the long journey across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, from Vine Street, down town Philadelphia, because car rides always made me sick. I always had to sit in the back by the window with it opened, and with a brown paper bag in my lap just in case I had to barf, which I sometimes did. But playing “punch car” helped kept my mind off my motion sickness, at least a little. That’s the game where you give someone a little punch whenever you saw one of those small Volkswagen cars on the road? Some people referred to them as Beatle Bugs. Anyway, that’s the game my brothers, sisters and I use to play--along our hour road trip--with our New Jerseyan cousins, whenever they came along for the ride.
But the anticipation of arriving to grandma’s house far outweighed my anxiety of the car ride there. You see, my grandma had built a reputation with her grandchildren for her tremendous home-baking goods. And we could hardly wait to get there to get a taste of her deep fried, juicy, southern crispy chicken--that would be tender enough to pull apart in strips with your fingers--and her soft, airy, hot, buttermilk, buttered biscuits that were as big as your hand. And for desert we would tackle grandma’s home-made, hot blueberry pie, straight from the oven, that we swore you could smell the sweet aroma of traveling in the air a mile away from her home.
Aside from the fond memories of traveling to grandma’s house and eating her good food are the fond memories of the good times I shared with my aunts Ruthann and Sandy.
My grandma was a very religious person and insisted that the girls wear skirts or dresses when visiting her, and preferably way below the knee. She had no television in her house, didn’t allow playing cards or any games that required using dice. So we had to make up our own games to play. And I remember my aunts teaching us--their nieces and nephews--how to play “two can” and “four can man.” We would have foot races, play jacks with pebbles, since my cousins didn’t have the real thing, and jump rope with an old rusty rope we had found in my grandpa’s junky, broken down, and mildew-smelly garage at the far back of the property. We found an old rusty bike in there, too. Sometimes we played dress up in the cellar--that always smelled of moth balls--wearing old moth ball-smelling clothes that no one knew exactly where they’d came from. And when my grandparents weren’t home--usually they would be at church--we would sneak and listen to music, sang and dance in the back room of the house.
But visiting grandma wasn’t just all about fun and games. Foot racing, jump rope, hop scotch and riding bikes up and down the long, barren road along side the house to the point of exhaustion, often got put on hold when grandma would call on her grandchildren to work the fruit and vegetable garden; we picked string beans, potatoes, tomatoes, watermelons, carrots, collard greens, cabbages, lettuce, strawberries, and other fruits and vegetables, like peaches, okra and corn on the cob, then sell them to passersby from grandma’s roadside stand. It would be so hot out there--usually temperatures in the high 90’s--that we would take turns working the stand, so that no one person would be standing in the sun too long. And at the end of a long hot day, we would sit on the edge of the pond at the side of the house and put our feet in the crisp, cold water to cool off.
Those were the days.
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