Now it was in the Springtime, as I recollect it, when the mountain was dotted with petite dabs of fresh pale green, a virginal shade from the Master artist’s sage palette, when I sat at the dinette in Granny’s modest kitchen, looking out the window at the blooming redbuds that stood out like merry boughs of cotton candy along the hillside. Winter had retreated, and the whole blooming world seemed to rise up from the dead.
It was that day that I first saw Granny’s cookbook.
Her spindly fingers found the pages she sought out quickly. It was nothing more than a spiral bound notebook, truth be told, the page edges frayed and tattered with several decades or more of elbow grease, garden soil, and that good ol’ Granny magic.
Oh, magic, indeed. Now Granny would have never proclaimed herself to have ever been more than a mountain sister, a daughter of the Highlands, or one of the heirs to the Appalachian throne of mystery and the craft of her foremothers and the wild blue.
I said, “Granny, what you got in that book?”
“Nothin’ I don’t know already,” she said.
Now Granny never did read the words in that tattered cookbook; she knew all the recipes already, like she’d said. Instead she took out a pencil from her silverware drawer and made notes in the margins as I watched on.
Granny was older than those pages, and I’d once asked her just how many years’ old she was. She had laughed and opened her mouth wide enough for me to get a glimpse of her sparkling gold eye tooth — an honest to God golden tooth! — and then she told me she couldn’t say, because it would likely scare me to death.
If anybody asks, I’m thirty-nine, she’d say. Now thirty-nine seemed awfully farfetched to me, and I knew Granny was twice that, if not more, and the lines etched into the furrow of her brow and forehead could easily hide a good eighty or even ninety years’ worth of scribbled secrets. And I listened well when she would speak, for she didn’t spew out words just to hear her head rattle or make idle noise. She said things that ought not be spoken in company, and she divulged her thoughtful contention when I’d dare to look upon her mystic countenance.
Granny was so old that she appeared to me like a candle that had been burning from both ends, and the wax of her had melted into a shapeless, expressionless, indomitable figure that wore a red gingham apron and a high and mighty mound of graying black hair that sat atop her resolute form in a mess of bobby pins and whorls of practicality. Her lips were thin and intentional, her words firm and absolute. She was oddly beautiful.
I recollect vividly the things she spoke of, and I have not released a single breath of them until this day.
She said that where God has walked once, the Devil has made his rounds twice. And that ol’ Devil is especially jealous of us women, and for no other reason than we hold the opportunity for life inside of us, and that men want to either love us or have us, and they hate us when they can’t or when we won’t let them. And it ain’t no wonder that we live longer than the menfolk, because we have more to do.
Ain’t nobody gonna save you ‘cept you, she said. So quit looking for that storybook thoroughbred and take up your seat on the ol’ mare. She’ll serve you better and carry you further. She’ll take you beyond those cotton candy redbuds and up into the yonder where nobody and nothing but the wild painters squall and the winsome Jenny wrens warble. They’ll sing a song just for you, if you let them. Listen with your ears and heart wide open.
Go out into the grassy flats where the honeysuckle and jewel weed flourish; they’re meant for more than just a passing butterfly. They’re for you, too. Those old touch-me-knots can take the sting out of poison ivy and the pleurisy root can cure what ails the aching and grieving chest. And ain’t nothing as delectable as the pokeweed that’s been fried up with cornmeal and a flick of table salt if you pinch ‘em off just right. And if you’re ever in the worst kind of shape, good ol’ yeller root in enough quantity can stave Death itself away.
But I witnessed stranger things, too, like when local girls from the holler would come up to have Granny look into their coffee cups and study the ominous grounds within, and she’d tell them of births or meetings of destiny, and even warn them of approaching dangers or faintness of their hearts. She’d more than once been known to let the neighbors’ daughters look behind their backs with mirrors down her spring water well, and tell them if they mused blindly enough, they’d get a glimpse of their fate or fortune. And she’d blown more than a few fires out of the sting of warts and even a broken heart or two. I’d seen it with my earthly eyes or I’d likely have dismissed it as a chimera or hallucination.
But as Granny said, where God walks once, the Devil rounds twice. There are vipers lying in wait of you amidst the plentiful saving weeds, and more than one mountain sister has fallen casualty to the snare of a rattler or copperhead or a handsome man ready to strike. Look for snake spit on the clover and never reach blindly into an inviting bough of cloying raspberry or a plentiful display of chicory or romance. There’s much worse than poison ivy to be found up in these woods.
And never forget, just as Granny once warned me, that there’s always somebody bigger and meaner than you are, and even if a woman is too tired to feud and wrangle, she ain’t never too spent or old to hold her peace and pull a trigger.
When the lights would go down in the late evening, after the supper dishes were cleared and put back in the cupboard, Granny would share a sip of her reserved home brew with me, and we’d lay out in the yard with the crickets underneath a blanket of the brightest stars that the Heavens ever conceived, and she’d talk about regular things, like how to get a perfect stitch on a Drunkard’s Path quilt (have a few nips of ‘shine first) and the secret to fixing the best biscuits this side of the Mason Dixon (a loving pinch of sugar in everything, even the gravy) and she’d remind me that the best things must be figured out for one’s self. I could tell you all day long it was a mistake, but you’d have to make it yourself to know for sure.
Granny is long gone to the Hereafter now, and I last saw her in final repose in her modest casket, her proud chin pointed heavenward and her spindly fingers crossed over her chest like a warrior’s armor. Even though I stood in the funeral parlor and looked upon her still figure, knowing well that there was not enough yeller root in the free world to bring her back from that long sleep, sometimes I still hear her voice when the mountain falls quiet in the twilight of the evening. I hear her telling me about the pokeweed and pleurisy root and her warning of the vipers. And, of course, where God makes one round, the Devil makes two.
As for that tattered cookbook, I couldn’t discern a single recipe. The words were written down with a pencil from Granny’s silverware drawer, and have all but faded completely into oblivion. But isn’t that how the most precious of things are? Graying moments become memory, and just like Granny, memories don’t stay.
Every so often I look at those timeworn words, so obscure and so secretly veiled, and I remember that Springtime day by her kitchen window, when the fading Winter had withered away and the cotton candy redbuds dotted the hillside, and the whole world seemed to rise up from the dead, and I can’t help but wonder if Granny ever existed at all. How supremely clever. And how like her. I have no choice but to make those old mistakes for myself, just as she had laughed and said I would. But regardless of pokeweed or saving yeller root or ‘shine beneath the stars, one thing is for certain.
I am thirty-nine. And always will be, if anybody should ask.
Reblogged this on The Crone's Table.
Wow.. amazing wrtiting is was almost like I was there in my Aunt Dean’s kitchen in Alabama with red roads and the vibrations from the mining. She wasn’t crafty or into apothecary knowledge but none the less times that were unforgettable and dear. Thank you for sharing that brilliant life journey.
So beautifully written! Enjoyed reading this, made my heart smile.
Your Granny left magic in your heart and you share it with us so eloquently. I can almost feel her beaming pride for your selfless gifts to the world with your lovely stories. Thank you for bringing memories of my Grannie back to me. She would say “ get busy child idle hands are the devils workshop”. The only time I remember her sitting was when she would round us up to sit around her rocking chair so she could read to us from her bible and she would always finish with her own profound words of wisdom. She was awesome. I miss her !
Thank you
Sweet as night love this
Such a wonderful penned story!! It was so lovely to look into the mystery of someone’s special tale. With such wisdom in every word. It’s true that age brings wisdom and it would do this Earth good if the younger members of the planet listened! Thank you for sharing this tale….
I also Miss My Granny every single day. 😦
I absolutely LOVE your stories. I had a Granny . She knew all about how to cure a cold with tomato juice .. 🙂
Her favorite saying that I remember was red sky at morning sailors take warning red sky at night sailors delight
I enjoy very much reading about the old ways of the Appalachia’s .I grew up in the mountains of southwest Va and was raised by my grandmother ,she taught me about a lot of stuff medicinal herbs and healing and all which I have carried through my Adult life and shared with my own children. I enjoy being outdoors in the woods and gardening and cooking and brewing up herbs for natural healing it is something I completely enjoy. I look forward to more of your writings ,Have a Blessed Day ..
Oh how I miss my grandmother after reading your words. She knew the sounds of the forest well and the plants for health or illness. Anyone visiting would be made well within hours after she heard their cough or felt their forehead. My greatest blessing from her was teaching me how to love. Please write a book and share with us your granny’s wisdom.
Old family name England my Granny’s first name Susan Frances. She was a herbalist healer reader of tea leaves and coffee grounds. She was also a deer and I was blessed to have a pinch of her gifts. She was from Appalachia, I am so happy that you have chosen to share your stories so similar to ours!
This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing your story.
Wonderful story! Thank you!
I love reading your stories, as they make me yearn for the mountains. I’ve never lived in the mountains, but I think my soul has at one time or another.
Anna, you’re quite a talented writer and an insightful young lady. Continue the good work. Dennis
ALWAYS, love your stories.
I love this piece. It conjured many warm memories of my own Granny, and the tattered recipe collections—some written in her very own hand—that stand proudly with shiny new volumes, certain as nightfall I’ll never throw them away.
I love your work. Let me know when you publish a book of short stories. I will be the first in line.Rose Sefton
Anna: I would be honored to read your books.
What is the pluersy root? Loved this!
This is beautiful! I love your writing, every detail could be pictured while reading this.
I assumed ‘yellow root’ was ginseng, found in the mountains only.
Granny’s yeller root is more well known as Goldenseal. 🙂
Thank you! I was wondering…
Goldenseal? I was thinking yellow dock. Wonderful words 🙂
Always a pleasure when your name shows up in my box; time to sit a spell with a good cuppa’ in my hands!
Have a cuppa for me.
I can never get enough of your writings! Brilliant!
I love your stories, even though I am from a different country. 🙂
Lovely. My heart resonants with your stories.
Sincerely, Connie Gunter cagunter59@gmail.com
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You make this heart smile from ventricle to ventricle! Thanks “She pointed her peace and pulled the trigger.” grateful sigh!
You might try photographing each page of Granny’s book with a good camera. My husband did that for me when, I too could no longer read my Granny’s writing. Sometimes, that was all that was needed once the picture was viewed on a computer screen. Sometimes, he would adjust the brightness to enhance the words. These bits of paper where all that was left of the history of some family heirlooms. Plus Granny always had to add a bit of her commentary on its history! Priceless to me!
Always good. Thank you.
I LOVE this!! I love granny woman stories!
Beautifully written!
My niece calls me her little granny witch. I love reading your stories, need more of them.
Brought back a few loving memories and tears…….
I LOVE YOUR WRITTING & RELATE SO MUCH TO YOUR STORIES. MY GRANNY TAUGHT ME WELL OF THE HERBS & RECIPES & OF MANY STORIES. THANK YOU FOR SHARING THESE.
You have a talent for writing. Please get down all the stories now, while your memory is still good. You’ll wish you had when you get old otherwise. I’d love to read more of your writing. Are you published?
Reblogged this on There Are So Many Things Wrong With This and commented:
Excellent, thank you.
Awesome, love everything you write
Some how, I hear her lauhing as she lays her hand apone you from the great beyond. She loves you child
What beautifully descriptive writing. Leaves you wanting to read more.
Your writing stirs my soul and ignites my imagination – or perhaps my buried memories? I treasure each new writing as if it were a gift wrapped in gold – thank you from my heart.
I cried. This reminded me too much of my own Granny who’s been at rest for 6 years now; except when I try to make biscuits. Then I’m pretty sure she haunts my kitchen and cusses when they turn out flat and brown 😉
Anna Wess, please write a book that I can hold in my hands and treasure as you do your Granny’s cookbook. Your writing tugs at my heartstrings.
Thank you so very much for this wonderful story. I loved it! I am at the magical age of “thirty-nine”, and it reminds me of time spent with my grandmother.
I was standing out on the deck just the other night listening to the frogs and creatures that walk thru my woods at night and being so very grateful to hear the earth come alive again this spring. These mountains call my name ! Your words are easy on the soul 🙂
Each post is more precious than the last. So thankful I found your words💜
love your writing!
Beautiful…..!
what is yeller root? I am interested in old time remedies. Thanks!
It’s more well known these days as goldenseal. 🙂