Memories Like Soup

Tip: Do not search for soup images while you are hungry.

Tip: Do not search for soup images while you are hungry.

Isn’t it interesting the memories that your brain’s cerebrum chooses to hold on tight to well into adulthood?

I mean, sure, there are the obvious high points, like the night of your high school graduation. (I still remember what I wore under my black gown, do you?) There are the low points, like the first time you experienced the loss of a childhood cherished pet. (Oh Champ, I still mourn you. Such a good, good dog.)

But there are also those weird little memories that, in the big scheme of life, tend to seemingly have no meaning. Yet, they emerge when you least expect it and become symbolic somehow.

I had one of those memories pop up this weekend.

My son wasn’t feeling great, and we were snuggling together on the couch, reading, in the early evening, having just eaten supper, most of which he didn’t touch. And then for whatever reason, I began to remember being really sick on a rare cool and rainy fall Sunday in South Texas when I was maybe 9 or 10. I remembered being curled up on the living room couch, coughing, with my Snoopy pillow against my cheek, while my dad watched the Houston Oilers in his recliner and snacked on peanuts.

But mostly, I remembered my mom in the kitchen (not unusual, as she spends most of her waking moments there still to this day), making my favorite creamy potato soup. We’re talking smooth, rich, perfectly homemade potato soup. Soup that’ll smooth the rough edges off your soul with just a cupful. No lie.

I swear, I could smell it simmering. I could hear the spoon against the stainless-steel side of the soup pan as she stirred it. I don’t remember actually eating the soup that Sunday, and I don’t recall any of the conversations that might have gone on around me. But I do vividly remember Mom making that soup … for me.

So, here in Colorado, I handed the Stinkbug over to his dad, who was also watching football on TV, in a recliner. And I quickly drove the 20 miles to the grocery store for ingredients. Then I came home, and at 8 p.m. on a Sunday night, I began to make my son’s favorite homemade chicken noodle soup.

I could say that I did it because I want a Mom of the Year award. (Do they give those out? Because that’d be cool.) Or I could say I did it because I knew he’d likely be even sicker tomorrow, and the soup would comfort him. (Prediction verified, darnit.)

But somewhere inside, I know the real reason I made that soup. It’s because some day, I’d love for him to be holding his own sniffling kiddo on a cool fall Sunday (maybe they’ll be watching football)  – and I hope, in that moment, he’ll think of me and smile.

—————————————————————–

PS: Thanks, Mama, for making that soup that day. Just in case I didn’t tell you because I was a snot-nosed, smart-ass preteen. Which is unlikely, right? But just in case.


If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

Putting Up the Tree — and Missing My Mammaw and Granny Like Crazy

Well, first I’ll get the mountain-snob snarkiness out of the way: It’s just plain weird to me to put up a Christmas tree in Colorado when there is no snow on the ground, no howling wind outside your door, no traipsing through knee-deep drifts to find the perfect tree, no fire burning in the wood stove. You get the picture. That was always our life when we lived at the top of a mountain. And I loved everything about it.

Down here in the foothills, we put up our tree today, and it was 60 degrees and not a flurry in sight. I wore shorts. We got our tree from a commercial seller.  It was too warm for a fire in the fireplace. Blah, blah.

But there are a few things that didn’t change. First, we made kettle corn to munch on while we decorated our tree (Grand Fir, $34.99. Ooops, snark returns.) We played Christmas music (on Pandora instead of CDs – hey, you can’t stop progress). And we pulled out all the same ornaments we use every year.

And that’s when I always start to miss my grandmothers, both of whom have passed away, so bad it’s a downright physical thing.

My grandmothers (Mammaw on my mother’s side, and Granny on my dad’s) could not have been more different, but I have such great memories of time spent with them both at the holidays.

I’m lucky that we lived fairly close to both of my grandmothers, and that both liked us girls to help them decorate for the holidays after Thanksgiving.

With Mammaw, it was fragile glass ornaments and shiny, gold-beaded balls she’d made herself. It was a pristine white angel with real feathers as wings as the topper. Some years, it was a full, lush tree flocked with fake white snow. It was white lights and a silver-trimmed tree skirt, probably bought from a department store. It was Eddie Arnold on the stereo. It was quiet and beautiful.

When my grandfather passed away (Mammaw left us years earlier), my mom shared some of Mammaw’s ornaments with me, and I cherish them. There are a couple of delicate antique ornaments in gold and red and silver, and two of her ornaments she decorated herself with old jewelry and tiny sequins and pins. They are as classy and lovely as she was. And they make me miss her so much. Our conversations. Our games of cards. Her Thanksgiving turkey and dressing. Her walking around with that kitchen towel on her shoulder as she cooked holiday meals. Her long, lean, soft hands that, as she got older and sick, she’d ask me to hold.

And then there are the items I have from Granny that take me back to the holidays at her house. She was a ranch woman, but she also loved to crochet. Those rough, calloused hands were like magic when it came to yarn. I have crocheted icicles and snowflakes she made – their hangers are old bread ties in green and red and blue. I specifically bought big, round, frosted bulbs this year to put on our tree, based solely on the fact that she had some similar on her tree every year. (They were from the 1960s, I swear, and we often worried that they’d get so hot, they’d catch the tree on fire.)

This is what a mesquite tree looks like, for you non-South Texans.

And her tree! Oh, I loved Granny’s approach to her tree. It was usually just a cedar tree we’d cut from the pasture, lopsided and wispy and perfect. She didn’t have a tree stand; we’d just plop the tree trunk in a bucket and fill it with rocks to hold `er steady. Ornaments were mostly handmade by either her or us kids. We always added store-bought tinsel of some kind, and red-and-white candy canes. Lots of multi-colored, twinkling lights were a must, too. She’d hang mistletoe up (real mistletoe, people!). Plus she had some plastic pine garland we’d hang over the entrance to the living room, from the dining room. With fake red berries. There’d be nails up there from the year before to tuck the garland behind, or we’d just use scotch tape.

After we decorated our tree today, we made cookies as a family, and I found my Granny’s old recipe for Cherry Cream Delight, which is basically just Cool Whip, a can of cherry pie filling, cream cheese, and graham crackers. Man, I loved that stuff. And I think I’ll be making it this year.

It’s nice to have my grandmothers’ things around me during the holidays, since I can’t have them here with me anymore. But what I wouldn’t give to, just one more time, hear Granny say, “No need to rush off now,” late on Christmas Eve, or to hear Mammaw shooing us out of her kitchen on Christmas Day.

Miss you both.

What do love most about your grandmothers and the holidays? I’d love to hear about others’ memories, too.


If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

River Days and Swamp Coolers

This is my new best friend, the portable swamp cooler I call, “Al.”

I haven’t been updating this blog as much as I’d like (and not near as much as my publisher would like I’m sure!) Life has been exceptionally crazy of late, though, so I have a good excuse. Let’s see … we moved from the mountaintop to the foothills of Denver, and I’m slowly emerging from grief mode. I have purchased a portable swamp cooler and drag it around me like some folks drag around their oxygen tanks. I also left the job I’ve been at for six years (the longest time I’ve ever been in one job) and started a new job that I’m loving. My son started first grade at a new school, and my husband lost his job. Yeehaw! But things are settling down now. Or will soon.

So until I have the ability to write more than a paragraph, I thought I’d go through some of my old stuff and post a short piece of my previous work.

Following is one of my favorite little mini-essays that I wrote about my childhood, growing up on the banks of the Guadalupe River. Much of my third novel I’m working on right now takes place along the river. Thanks for reading! (And my apologies if you’ve read this before.)

RIVER DAYS

The South Texas Guadalupe River in all its muddy loveliness.

Patterns exist in every childhood. Eating warm oatmeal for breakfast. Going to church at 9 a.m. on Sundays. Catching the bus after school.

Well, I rarely ate anything as healthy as oatmeal, only went to church on Easter and Christmas, and rode the bus just once, to see where it went. But the one pattern that stands out most in my years of growing up in South Texas is this: for about 10 years, every other Sunday, my two sisters and I piled into the back of my father’s 1979 green Ford truck with the camper on the back, sat on cattle feed sacks so hard we could feel every cube inside, and sang Tammy Wynette songs until my parents had driven the 20 or so miles to our bi-weekly destination.

My parents owned a camphouse on the banks of the Guadalupe River in South Texas. The cabin sat high on a grassy hill, just a stone’s throw from the river, and looked like it was put together with wood glue and a roll of aluminum foil.

Early on, my father had tiled the concrete floors with free, leftover linoleum squares from the lumberyard, so each one was a different pattern. Rusting iron beds lined the front room like an army’s hospital ward, the mattresses thin as slices of Wonder bread and holding fast to the mildew that only river air can provide. The bathroom’s toilet and sink showed only hints of ever being white; the well water’s sulfur had painted them brown and yellow and red, making them look like something fit for a horror movie. The kitchen was an old school bus, attached to the back of the camphouse by a welder’s hand. The kitchen-bus ran the length of the back of the house, the floors slanted down so much you could lose your balance bending down to pick up a dropped potato chip.

Our first chores when we arrived on Sunday mornings were the following: open the wood shutters that covered the screened windows in the front and back, securing them with baling wire. Check the bathroom and kitchen for water moccasins. Help Mom unload the brown grocery bags and stay out of Daddy’s way as he lit the barbecue pit.

After that, we were free.

Unlike at home, where my mother kept a tight handle on cleanliness, we could come and go as we pleased, river mud and all.

We could eat greasy burgers on buttery Texas Toast.

When a rain shower would develop, we could spend time inside, jumping from one iron bed to the next—a highly developed form of chase.

We could play on the tires that hung from century-old pecan trees as swings, and land on our knees, not worrying a bit about the grass stains.

We could build mud castles next to the swift currents of the Guadalupe and walk around all day with streaks of dried, clay-like dirt on our feet, arms and legs.

My sisters and cousins and I swang on a rope swing like this one out into the river. I wish I had photos of ours, though, because it was way better.

We could dangle from a thick, rough rope tied to a sturdy oak branch and let ourselves fly like birds out over the river, then fall from the sky with our stomachs in our throats, into the deep water, then float on our backs, feet first, down to the boat dock.

And we could run back to the camphouse, hair dripping wet, swimsuits filled with river silt, and walk straight into the kitchen to grab a cold Dr. Pepper, leaving footprints while hopping from a green paisley tile to one with sunbursts of orange.

Something about those days on the river has stayed with me through the years, as have the raised white scars on my knees—from landing on rocks in the river or cracked pecan shells near the tire swing.

I was at my best then, I think, when there were few rules and even fewer moments of doubt. I, along with my sisters, didn’t just live out the hours on those Sundays, we attacked them, like something fleeting. Like chasing dragonflies in waist-high weeds.

Risks seemed inevitable, even expected. We were wild. We were tomboys. We were fearless. We were laughter and dirty cheeks and sunburned noses.

We were our truest selves.


If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here: