Mama's Words [Memories]
Posted: 07 Jun 2011, 12:58
My favorite memories growing up are of my Mama Maudy, of making pink lemonade with her and curling up at her feet so that she could tell me and my cousins a story. I remember when I was little, I’d be leaning over the counter , with my chin propped up in my hands. I used to wear these little purple overalls everywhere with a creamy colored shirt that had ducks all over it. The sun would be streaming through the window and hitting her leathery skin at every angle. Age dulled her tone so that she didn’t glisten the way my mama used to always say it did when she was growing up. I would be watching and listening as she would move around the little kitchen, picking up the best lemons from the window sill.
“Girl, what you doin with eyes that big?” She would ask me. I guess that I’d always go wide eyed when watching; call it childish fascination, but I loved to see her get it ready. I would shrug because I never knew how to answer her, and she’d go on about what she was doing. I remember how the floor boards used to squeak when her feet would pass over them. She never liked to wear shoes, told me “Cora Lee—“ Because she said that’s how a real southern woman should pronounce it. She said “Cora Lee, Jesus didn’t wear no shoes in the desert.” I always giggled at that.
“But Mama Maudy.” I would say. “Jesus wore sandles.”
She’d always fix a look on me, the kind that said I’d better not be thinking too much about all of that mess. “Jesus wasn’t an old woman, now be nice to your Mama.” And of course, I always went along with it. But I’m getting off track.
She would take those four or so lemons and chop them up, squeeze out all of the juice into the bottom of a crystal pitcher. She’d get herself a bottle of fresh water from the fridge because drinking from the bayou and the river was a bad idea. The pitcher itself had a bulbous bottom and a long slender stem that fanned out into a spout. She’d put that away and t hat’s when we always reached my favorite part, the strawberries. She’d get out a big mixing bowl, by which point I’d usually be pouting up at her. She’d arch a brow and mutter something about a hellion then pass me over the knife.
I would chop up the strawberries and add the sugar to them so that they could form a natural syrup, thick and juicy, which she’d add to the lemonade in place of outright sugar. We’d toss in a few chunks of Ice and stir it all together. By the time we were done, I was usually grinning like a fool. She always made it at sunset and so the light would be going out. She’d say “Girl, get you a drink.” So I would, get a big glass that I could barely hold in my hands and then we’d go out back where her garden was. She had a rocking chair that she’d take out with her and once we were outside on the cement, she’d sit down and I’d curl up against the side of her seat.
We would always look up at the stars together as they began to come into view and the taste of the lemonade would begin to lull me to sleep along with the creaking sound of her rocker. I’d be nearly dozing when she would always say. “Baby girl, Mama’s got a story to tell you.”
“Girl, what you doin with eyes that big?” She would ask me. I guess that I’d always go wide eyed when watching; call it childish fascination, but I loved to see her get it ready. I would shrug because I never knew how to answer her, and she’d go on about what she was doing. I remember how the floor boards used to squeak when her feet would pass over them. She never liked to wear shoes, told me “Cora Lee—“ Because she said that’s how a real southern woman should pronounce it. She said “Cora Lee, Jesus didn’t wear no shoes in the desert.” I always giggled at that.
“But Mama Maudy.” I would say. “Jesus wore sandles.”
She’d always fix a look on me, the kind that said I’d better not be thinking too much about all of that mess. “Jesus wasn’t an old woman, now be nice to your Mama.” And of course, I always went along with it. But I’m getting off track.
She would take those four or so lemons and chop them up, squeeze out all of the juice into the bottom of a crystal pitcher. She’d get herself a bottle of fresh water from the fridge because drinking from the bayou and the river was a bad idea. The pitcher itself had a bulbous bottom and a long slender stem that fanned out into a spout. She’d put that away and t hat’s when we always reached my favorite part, the strawberries. She’d get out a big mixing bowl, by which point I’d usually be pouting up at her. She’d arch a brow and mutter something about a hellion then pass me over the knife.
I would chop up the strawberries and add the sugar to them so that they could form a natural syrup, thick and juicy, which she’d add to the lemonade in place of outright sugar. We’d toss in a few chunks of Ice and stir it all together. By the time we were done, I was usually grinning like a fool. She always made it at sunset and so the light would be going out. She’d say “Girl, get you a drink.” So I would, get a big glass that I could barely hold in my hands and then we’d go out back where her garden was. She had a rocking chair that she’d take out with her and once we were outside on the cement, she’d sit down and I’d curl up against the side of her seat.
We would always look up at the stars together as they began to come into view and the taste of the lemonade would begin to lull me to sleep along with the creaking sound of her rocker. I’d be nearly dozing when she would always say. “Baby girl, Mama’s got a story to tell you.”