Working out the kinks

April 18, 2013

And I am not talking about jumping about while an old Punk CD is playing. Although… I am working on a series of prose style pieces for my current book and possible to go in another manuscript about my childhood. Working on recipe styled pieces has not been as hard as once thought.

It Wasn’t a Stroke of Luck

The last time I saw her, standing, was in 1989, and it was by the stove. Earl T had bought her an electric can opener to ease the pain of arthritis. She opened a can of green beans to go with the fast food fried chicken we brought when we surprised her with a pop call. Daddy called it that, because you just pop in to say hello. Mammaw, as her grand-children called her, would laugh at her son’s antics, but still it was her way to fuss over kin folk.

I was blessed to have such a great influence like Eula Mae Akin. I missed her southern style beans. We would sit on a bin, in the middle of the floor, and help take off the ends. She always used a small paring knife to remove dark spots and stems. After slicing some bacon and onion, she would place it all in a pot. A smile and whistle and smell told you when it was ready. The pressure cooker, life and stove-top kind, did all the rest.

My grandmother became barely recognizable; crooked fingers, bent over back, a sad look of pain in her eyes, and eventually a stroke had made her an invalid. Now you stood by the hospital bed, holding her hand, and talked. If she answered you it was in a series of loud moans and jerks, just before a nurse changed her diaper.

Today is her birthday, and I woke up with a craving for her…

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