Old friends get to live on forever. In this case, my favorite childhood dog, Cubby, and my “adopted grandparents” Wilson and Irma Speight, constitute dear, old friends.

Cubby was an obnoxious puppy we got in order to replace the hole in our hearts and lack of holes in the yard after our first dog, Skunky, passed away. I don’t know who came up with dog names in our family, but trust me, I’d have gone with something more intellectual like Plato or Socrates, but Cubby it was. I was never a dog fan, and preferred the multitude of stray cats that literally littered our barns in the winter time. Lucky for Cubby, however, she was my dad’s pride and joy and soon became a significant part of our “adopted grandparents'” life.

Wilson and Irma were an older couple, sans kids, who lived at Snyder Village, the assisted living/nursing home in Metamora. They had a little cottage on the East side of the “village” and essentially had no family to speak of. My dad and Wilson were “ham buddies” which meant that they talked on the ham radios together–this is not a weird meat reference, it’s like fancy walky-talkies that require a license and mastery in morse code. Wilson must have been in his low 70s when I first met him, and was this quirky old man who wore plaid golf pants a little too high, with a worn leather belt and mis-matched polo shirt. This was his uniform for every single occasion. Irma was the sweetest grandmother figure any young girl could be lucky enough to encounter, and as the result of not having her own children, she treasured us Rocke clan like we were her own.

One year, my brother Jeff adopted them as a 4-H project. I know this sounds bizarre and inhumane, but it was a bona fide project and he had taken a liking to them, but I don’t remember the exact story there. What I do remember, is that after he started visiting them and inviting them to events, they became a part of our loud, eccentric family. They were super quirky themselves, which only added spice to the holidays on the farm. Wilson never had his hearing aids turned up high enough and we had to shout across the table and wait for his loud “what?! what did you say?!” while Irma quietly tsked at him for being unruly. The truth is, they were a refreshing add-on to our family, and the best part was that they began to unexpectedly “drop by,” though that’s not really an accurate phrase when you live on the outskirts of town. Regardless, they would randomly show up at the house, and we no longer had warning, as our guard dog was too busy eating store bought dog treats and therefore neglecting her post. Cubby had found new friends, we loved the refreshing comedy and perspective they brought to our table, and they had found a new reason to be excited about life.

One year, just when I thought I would be resigned to home made clothes forever, Irma bought me an outfit from The Gap for my birthday. You would have thought someone had bought my way into heaven. I think I was a freshman in high school that year, and of course, was struggling to fit in. It was a blue and white checkered blouse with ruffles across the chest and a cross tie around the waist. She matched it with white shorts and a chocolate brown leather belt. I was so shocked that she had picked out something so trendy, and when I commented she said, “Honey, I didn’t pick it out. I just walked it and asked them what the cute girls are wearing this year.” I remember being so flattered by her honesty and generosity, and wore that outfit until the seams burst with my college 15.

Irma got Alzheimer’s and passed on quite a few years ago now, and Wilson followed soon after. I don’t think he knew what to do with himself without her. My eyes still overflow when I think about them, or use the beautiful china that Irma left me, but I’m so thankful that our lives crossed paths and we enhanced each other’s worlds for a decade or so. I know that my life is richer for having known them, and I’d like to think that their world was a little better for having the Rockes as part of their family. I started using their china every chance I get as a celebration–Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, a new recipe, the 4th of July, my birthday–any chance to get to talk about them and feel them still with me.

I take my hair color very seriously, which is not something inherited. I’m not sure where I got the wild idea to change with the seasons each year and sport blonde in the summer, browns or coppers in the fall, full blood-red in the winter and then gradually back to blonde in time for the warmer temps. What I do know, is that my mother’s two feet of thin, straight hair has never seen a salon, much less been colored. I used to beg to be her “stylist,” even through high school and college, occasionally cutting a couple of inches of dead ends, giving her a scalp rub, or my favorite—weaving her long locks into two fine braids to hang down her back.

This week I realized that I was in dire need of a stylist, which normally doesn’t happen, as I’ve had a standing appointment every five weeks with my friend/stylist in Texas. I’ll gladly eat leftovers, pack my lunch, and shop at Plato’s Closet or Target clearance, so long as there are funds for my almost monthly hair color. The dilemma in Atlanta is that, well, who wants to pay downtown prices, especially when there’s no “teacher discount” or friend hook up? And, at the risk of sounding really superficial, finding a new colorist is cause for significant anxiety. If I had to choose between a great doctor or reliable colorist, I’d choose the colorist every time (and then self-medicate). This is serious business. Needless to say, I postponed the inevitable, in lieu of sun bleaching at the pool, until this week when I had to face hair reality. After a conversation with friends about supporting local business, I booked my color at “Relish,” my neighborhood salon, just diagonal from our town house and prayed I didn’t get the newbie. And, as usual, my anxiety was for naught, as this morning’s scalp rub with rosemary and lavender and nearly perfect blend of caramel and honey blonde highlights was a pretty incredible start to my day–and even a fraction of the cost I was expecting. Maybe I got a jam discount, as I was quick to swap recipes with Erin, my new colorist, and promised to bring some by this afternoon before I go to the farmer’s market to partake in the peach festivities. Regardless, all is right with the world again. As for my mom? She just doesn’t know what she’s missing. She’d be stunning as the grandma with violet-red hair.

Food on the farm was just a reflection of whatever was currently being harvested, as we’d eat fresh tomatoes and corn on the cob as a full meal most of the month of July. It was one of my favorite meals, actually, and rarely got sick of it, but when the asparagus was growing in abundance, I was less excited. I do give my mom kudos for her creativity, because she could turn buckets of apricots, cherries, and stalks of rhubarb into much more than just breakfast juices or dessert; she was quite impressive with her renditions of rhubarb and cherry sauce, (think apple-sauce type concept and texture). She’d make apricot nectar, whole-cherry jam and apricot preserves (for ice cream topping or toast) and can them up for the winter. Nothing ever went to waste, as she always figured out something to do with whatever was ripe in the pasture or garden.

This morning, against my itch to check out the two boutiques on Bill Kennedy Street, I decided it should be a throw back Saturday in honor of both of my moms. You see, my husband’s family is Italian (and German), and taught me to make Italian food. In fact, one of the few things I really do right in the kitchen is make bruschetta. Right outside my front door is this massive rosemary plant that has confused the city street with open farmland, and was in need serious need of a trim. I think my mom would be proud of the various ways I’m re-purposing it this morning, and I’m certain that my Italian-German mom would love that olive oil I’m infusing for bruschetta next week. I ground the leaves and made bread crumbs, infused olive oil and simple syrup (think savory adult beverage), and am moving on to dish soap and laundry detergent next.

I think every other Saturday (which is when the hubs works) should be a throw back Saturday. It feels good to spend the morning in my grandmother’s old apron with the sticky sap of Rosemary on my fingers, and no idea what I’ll end up making before the morning is up. I love that it’s not even 11:00 yet, and I have a variety of goodies in the works, 12 more jars of jam canned up and ready for gifts, and still have time before lunch to scheme improvements to the DIY laundry detergent recipe I found on Pinterest. I like to know that even though I don’t have to do it myself, I still can, and that’s satisfying.

Today I made strawberry jam like my mom taught me when I was a kid. It was one of the first home-made things I ever learned to make because I was (and still am) terrible with Math and it was easy for me to remember–equal parts pureed fruit and sugar. I woke up this morning feeling overwhelmed with the number of things I should be working on: my graduate school weekly work as well as the pending final paper, my IB reading for the new courses I’ll be teaching this fall, finishing unpacking, the unending paper work, finding new doctors, applying for my GA driver’s license, house projects, cleaning, etc. I know to the average person, the life of a teacher in the summer time is a piece of cake, but I take my “free time” very seriously, and expect to accomplish serious to-do lists every single day. It’s part of my genetics from growing up on a farm, where there was never a stay-in-pajamas-day in order to lounge and watch TV. We always had to-do lists, and didn’t stop until there were lines drawn through each item or it was dark–whichever came first. Before tackling my to-do list today, however, I turned on my favorite Pandora blend–Tanya Tucker, Dolly Pardon, and Tammy Wynette, and I made jam. Making jam is my go-to hobby and my quickest connection to my childhood. It brings me a sense of calm and solace on hard days like nothing else can do. In San Antonio, Nicholas used to travel a lot and I’d make jam and listen to music when I felt lonely and missed being around him. I made jam late at night when I was stressed about my school day or had a situation with a student that was out of my control. Jam is my haven, and I always know that regardless of my stress or frustration, my jam will turn out sweet and delicious, and that sense of regularity will bring me comfort and peace. Today, I made jam because it reminded me of home and a simple life, where everything feels okay in a kitchen of foods made from love. I find myself now in an urban place of complexity–the sense of city makes me want even more for a “home grown” lifestyle on the inside, as I think the contrast of the two makes for a perfect life. I’ve been planting basil seeds inside old tomato cans and I even have my own strawberry plant in the back panel of land beside the drive way. I re-furnished an old baby changing table the other day and turned it into a cocktail table, while feeling reminiscent of my 4-H days. These bits of my childhood inside our new place has helped to create a home for us, and as long as I continue to make jam and homemade bread, and re-create the simplicity of farm life inside our dwelling, I think each day will be a celebration.

Rocke Strawberry Jam:
Equal parts pureed berries and sugar
One squeezed lemon per 4-5 cups berries and sugar

Combine ingredients in a large pot on the stove, bring to a boil, and soft boil for 20 minutes, stirring constantly. Take off heat and allow to sit overnight to continue thickening. Jar the next morning.

Sometimes I get an ache for wide open space (insert Dixie Chicks song here) and would give almost anything to ride a three wheeler with Jeff and laugh and sing “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys” with him.  I left the farm for college when I was 17, jaunted back a few summers and then moved away permanently when I was 21.  It’s funny how I can never really get the nostalgia out of my system.  I’d love to get in a big pick-up truck and blare “Copperline Road” as we head off to go mudding somewhere in Tremont.  Jeff was my annoying big brother who was just too close to my age, too into my business, a total antagonist, and a massive bathroom hog growing up, but he was my friend and confidant more than anything else.  We fought and screamed and yelled—I broke some of his wood working projects for 4-H one year, just to spite him, and then lied about it when dad questioned me.  He got even when he cut my Barbie’s hair off and promised me it would grow back so I kept checking for growth and nothing happened.  We slammed doors and acted crazy, but we were partners in crime, too.  One year we decided that we’d had enough of having to plant, weed, and harvest disgusting vegetables, so we dug all the lima beans up out of the garden soil and just told mom that they didn’t come up that year. When a few still came up, we fed them to the sheep and never spoke of it again.  His independent shenanigans were priceless, too, as he didn’t need help from me to be ornery.  In high school, even though I was dating “a very nice boy” by my grandmother’s standards, Jeff came into my room where Nate and I were appropriately sitting at an arm’s length.  He had a loaded shot gun in tow, and pumped it for effect—just in case.  I don’t think Nate every really recovered from that one.   Jeff used to get up at 6 a.m. on Saturday mornings, knowing that I was going to sleep in until at least 7, and shoot squirrels and rabbits from the roof, making sure to hit the tin on the hog house a couple of times to wake me.  There were times I wanted to strangle him, but was half his size and couldn’t do anything about it.  And then he would stand up for me as a bratty little freshman who was scared to death in a new school, protect me from “the bad boys” and listen to me cry when one of them broke my heart.  He let me tag along when he got his driver’s license and included me in social events when he could have easily left me at home.  He was obnoxiously loud, didn’t understand that farting in public wasn’t socially acceptable, and was brassy and rough around the edges—actually, I suppose all of these details are still painfully accurate.  He recently moved his family to another ranch in Arizona and is, by my standards, a bona fide cowboy.  Jeff and I turned out so differently as adults, but I know that he always has my back—he’ll fight my battles even when I don’t ask him to, and has never judged me for making choices that don’t align with how we were raised. I know he’d never want the life I chose and vice versa, but he sees beyond that and accepts me without asking a bunch of silly questions or making condescending comments.  The crazy thing about Jeff is that he’s still childish, unrefined, and throws reason and caution to the wind, but he loves unconditionally like no one else I’ll ever know and has helped me be courageous enough to choose what I want in life—and for that, I am eternally grateful.

I grew up wishing a lot of things could be different.  I didn’t want to wear homemade clothes or hand-me-downs that didn’t fit right, even though that was the norm for everyone in my family, including my parents.  I was embarrassed of my permed mullet and wished that I didn’t have to work on Saturdays mornings instead of sleeping in like my friends at the latest birthday slumber party.  I wanted to go to the dances in middle school, wear make-up, and store bought dresses to band and choir contests.  I wanted my parents to come cheer me on at my tennis matches or pom-pon dance half time shows.  I was mortified to be the only 17 year old still in 4-H.  I didn’t want my boyfriend to have to help pressure wash and paint the chicken house with me before he could take me on a date and I wanted my parents to break down and get a hotel room instead of making us tent-camp in freezing Florida temperatures.  I wished my mom would keep the pilot lit on the dryer in the summer time so that I didn’t have to hang 7 people’s clothes on the wash lines beside the house.  I wished I didn’t have to walk through runny chicken poop in the aisles of the coop in order to gather Hodel’s Eggs for the local IGA grocery store.  What I didn’t know, was that my family was and is extraordinary; my mom raised 5 kids, taught for 20 years and still made homemade, organic dinners every night, sewed the majority of our clothes, carved out specific time for family events with our cousins, and above all, made sure that we never went without.  She planned month  long camping vacations and would read books like Pollyanna in the van to pass the time.  She packed coolers of pre-planned meals to cook over the fire and duffel bags of clothes for all seven of us.  She planted and harvested an enormous garden every year, and canned enough food in the cellar for us to all survive the apocalypse.  She taught Sunday school, read us Bible stories before bed and sewed our bedspreads and curtains to match.  Every Easter we picked out fabric, lace, and a new pattern for our dresses and she would work tirelessly so that we had new outfits come Easter morning.  My dad constantly made sacrifices at work to be home at 6:00 for dinner.  He was always calm at the table in spite of his chaotic work day; he took the time to pray before and after dinner and “finish up” with a reading from The Bible.  He worked in the pastures and barns relentlessly on the weekends–he didn’t have a “man cave” or happy hour with the boys.  There was no outlet for him–he took care of his family by cutting down dead trees in the pasture and splitting wood for the stove in the winter.  He played “fix it man” for every possible task in the barns, pastures, house, and cars, because that made the money stretch further.  My dad invented the DIY world out of necessity and love for his family.  My parents are superheroes.  Last week, they drove over 5100 miles to move my brother to Arizona and my husband and me from San Antonio to Atlanta.  They built a 13 foot custom bookshelf in our new house and worked like a construction crew for four days—dad will be 70 next week and mom 67 in July.

Superheroes.  I hope I’ll earn a cape one day, too.

 

There was nothing more important growing up then family and God.  We spent Wednesday nights and all day Sunday in church, and most Friday nights were deemed “Family Night,” which meant that we rotated to each cousin’s house for dinner and the remaining evening.  The moms figured out the food and house rotation, and the rest of us just showed up, ecstatic to have the night with our cousins to play “Kick the Can” “Ghost in the Graveyard” and whatever other games we made up.  See, we didn’t have televisions in our homes because our parents believed that we should keep the world out. That said, we became very creative creatures in order to occupy our time and make our own fun.  The barns became elaborate forts, the bedrooms upstairs became stages and we were the actors. For a night, we got to be anything we wanted, and we dressed up and “played pretend” for hours.  If the weather cooperated, we’d nominate someone to be “it” and they’d kick an old can across the drive way while we all scattered to hide. It was really just an elaborate version of hide and seek, but we thought we were more clever than an ordinary game.  As we grew older, we divided up more by gender and age–I was lucky enough to have female cousins close to my age on both sides of my family, so we’d retreat to one of our rooms to gossip about boys or complain about our parents.  I think my cousins were my closest friends as a kid, and I know that much of who I am today is credited to the people that they were and are.

Now I live hundreds of miles away from my nearest cousin, and If I’m lucky, I get to see a few of them once a year.  It’s strange to spend your entire childhood growing so close to people only to choose a life that takes you far away from them.  I know that life decisions has taken us in different directions, but I’m eternally grateful for the memories of our simple lives “back then.”

Grandma Rocke was an amazing cook, but in my world, she is famous for two things–pigs-in-a-blanket and scrambled pancakes. Imagine the best buttermilk pancake you’ve ever tasted, and then…it gets better, because it’s scrambled into bite size pieces and absorbs the syrup more evenly. Sigh. I can’t explain it, you just have to make them. Here’s the recipe, and just put about 3/4 cup of the mixture into a hot skillet and scramble like eggs. 🙂

Pancake Flour:

8 C whole wheat flour
1/2 C Sugar
2 1/2 T Baking Powder
4 t soda
4 t salt

For Pancakes:

1 C Mix
2 T Oil
1 Egg
1 C Buttermilk

I use to invite friends (or boyfriends) to breakfast, just to brag on her scrambled pancakes. There are few things in life that can’t be fixed with a hot batch of sweet goodness first thing in the morning. If that doesn’t fix it, I recommend a pig-in-the-blanket for lunch. She made a homemade honey wheat bread to surround the hot dog; it’s so simple, and yet divine. (And it couldn’t be just wheat–grandpa was a bee keeper and believed that all of life’s ailments could be cured with a spoonful of honey. In this case, the honey made the bread magical.) She always had a stash in the freezer, which was our first stop even before the candy dish. Here’s the recipe–dive in and enjoy.

Honey Wheat Bread

3 C White flour
2 Yeast packets
1 C Water
1 C Cottage Cheese
4 T butter
1/2 C Honey (This one’s for you, gramps.)
2 Eggs
2 1/2 C Wheat Flour
1/2 C Oatmeal

Stir together white flour and yeast. Heat to very warm: water cottage cheese, butter and honey. Add remaining ingredients. Knead until smooth and elastic and rise until double. Cut sections and wrap around hot dogs and allow to rise another hour on a cookie sheet. Bake at 350 for about 30 minutes or until golden brown.

Grandpa makes honey in heaven now, and Grandma keeps the Eureka nursing home busy with her late night requests for hot chocolate before bed. She’s 97 now and I love to call and chat with her, as her mind is better than mine and her memory is impeccable. I still call her to double check a recipe or tell her about my latest batch of jam. I think I’ll make scrambled pancakes this weekend, and call her as my breakfast company.