PLEASE PASS THE BISCUITS
by Charles C Robey
(Trussville, AL, 35173)
This Please Pass the Biscuits blog is taken from the Down-Home series of articles relating to the author’s concept of past events, memories and experiences. Its literary style reflects a combination of real life and fiction events, and is given for the sole purpose of light-hearted reading enjoyment and entertainment.
With all the progressive hustle and bustle of today’s hectic world, in this God-created and blessed universe of ours (Genesis 1:31), we can certainly use a bit of light-hearted entertainment. Diverting the overwhelming cares of the world, and recreating an atmosphere of that good old Down-Home feeling will hopefully be beneficial to both reader and writer.
Let's look back to those good ole days as they were so appropriately labeled. It was a special time around the Sunday table, enjoying that old-fashioned, post-church Sunday dinner with friends and family.
Now, with respect to the ostentatious war of words, can you relate? I trust you can and that you will enjoy “Please Pass the Biscuits. Simply a little fiction mixed with down-to-earth reality.
(Isaiah 46:4) “And I will still be carrying you when you are old. Your hair will turn gray, and I will still carry you. I made you, and I will carry you to safety.”
Have you ever spent time hanging around grandparents? The elder ones. I mean. There's nothing like it, short of a three-ring circus.
Grandparents are surely grand in my eyes, and are above all my favorite kin. I happen to have had four of them, all born and reared in the hills of Appalachia. I loved them all so, and I still do, although they are now up there looking down on me from above. Their memories will never leave the recesses of my mind.
My two grandmothers were much alike but yet totally unconnected in their ways. As a young child, to me they both could do the impossible; from sewing buttons back on my old faded blue jeans, to giving me a big good-night kiss.
I know I shouldn’t play favorites, and I won’t. There was down-home country cooking from the both of them, over their big, cast iron wood-burning stoves. Helping in their call to arms was the warning smell of the burning wood.
Like any other young whippersnapper my favorite pastime was eating. Wow, could my grandma on Mom’s side of the family make good banana pudding! She knew just how it was done. How she kept those bananas from turning black has always been a mystery to this day.
My other grandma, on Dad’s side of the family, had a totally different lifestyle, but she was same kind of natural, down-home cook. Her claim to fame was her homemade big-crust apple pie, as she so named her creation. It was surely to die for, especially when she would top it off with home-churned ice-cream.
My grandpas were a totally different story. One was a sought-after painter, the other an accomplished streetcar conductor.
I can still see my old fashioned painter grandpa, on Dad’s side of the family, wearing shirtless loose-fitting, worn Farmer John overalls with gadgets sticking out of all ten pockets. His familiar puffed out chewing tobacco cheeks, with a drop or two hanging around on the bib of his overalls for good measure, was only one of his trademarks.
He was a hard worker. He was so large; it took two mules to pull his ancient wagon. The preacher even had to remove an arm rest so as he could fit in the pews. When he would shout Hallelujah the big unfinished church rafters would answer the call to the high heavens.
First, and foremost, his name to fame was his dedication as the church head deacon in his little country church in the pines. And he could easily eat the best of us under the kitchen table, any day of the week and twice on Sunday. And eat he did, whether at the Wednesday night church suppers or at grandma’s old-fashioned Sunday dinners.
Grandpa’s mealtime food blessings still bless me to this very day. It wasn’t so much his prayers as his beseeching benedictions. You see he loved Grandma's big, old-fashioned buttermilk biscuits, and he made no bones about it, even to the Almighty. I can still hear the ending of his meal time blessings. “Keep us all in Your will and please pass the biscuits," all in one prayerfully benedictory breath.
Grandpa Deacon, as he was rightly called, surely had plenty of other family matters needing his dedicated prayer life. His large family stood in line at the family altar. Once, as the story goes, the family was moving into a neighboring town, and the old horse-drawn wagon was piled so high with furniture that the load managed to rip down the town's overhead electric wiring, plunging the entire town into total darkness.
Enter grandpa from Mom’s side of the family, the well-accomplished streetcar conductor. I’ll never forget his smartness. I'm not really sure if he made it through grammar school because he had to go to work to help support the family, but he never let that get the best of his learning capacity. He actually wore out a brand-new set of encyclopedias. What was so amazing, he could recite the A B C’s backwards.
He must have slept with a volume of the encyclopedia tucked under his pillow at night. His pet project was trapping me on the English language. Once he asked me, in an attempt to trap me, what the true pronunciation of Catsup or Ketchup was? Knowing his blazing quick intellect, I was ready for him, however. In a divinely-led response, I grabbed up his trusty reference book, letting him have it straight between the ears. ”Now Gramps”, I said.
“Ketchup and catsup are both made from ripened tomatoes. The term "ketchup" is more popular in most countries. The ingredients used — tomatoes, sugar, salt, vinegar, cinnamon, etc. — are pretty much the same in both ketchup and catsup.”
Picking up his cane, Grandpa stomped into the kitchen and over to the sink, and poured a big glass of water, and never quizzed me again. As a result, his favorite granddaughter refused to speak to me for a week or so.
Yes, those were good times, way back when. Every time we pull out the old picture albums, we seem to always end up shedding a tear or two. Obviously, we can’t go home again, but we can look forward to that coming Sunday dinner around the table in Glory land. And you know what? Grandpa will again give that food blessing ending with his plea, “please pass the biscuits.” Amen and Amen!
Here you have it, another good ole down-to-earth story of the past.
I trust that you enjoyed another of my Down Home series. Can you, just for a brief bit, place yourself in the middle of this little musing of times gone by? Go ahead, grab up your encyclopedia, you may need it. I’ll wait for your answer.
A parting point of clarity. Mainly, I am divinely indebted to my living Creator, to Whom I owe it all. Without the support of His eternal Word, these musings would not be possible, with the understanding of the clarity and consequences of words spoken, words written, and acts witnessed. I realize, of course, that my words could never possibly sum up His love for His children. So, I trust that His truths will silently emerge from within these writings. Thanks for tuning in. May God Bless.
“Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.” (Psalm 119:11)