Treasured Times

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Often when I pass the turn to Coolidge and Moultrie in Thomasville, it feels as though we should be going to Mama and Papa Graham’s house. For so many years we did travel that road to the little community called Merrillville.

We might find Papa in his overalls tinkering at the tractor shed, picking peas in his large garden, or maybe sitting on the porch ready to tell a corny joke. Mama was usually in the kitchen. The house always smelled delicious–a fresh peach cobbler, a roast in the pot, beans cooking slowly with a ham hock. Mama might be elbow deep in grating corn for freezing or maybe worrying over a scrapbook she was putting together.

According to what stage of life we were in, our children would be with us and would scatter, after giving hugs, to play with cousins. Later, grandchildren might tumble in the yard and explore the neighborhood. Down beyond the garden and across the road was Merrillville Baptist Church, a little white church with a steeple, always prominent in any weekend plans. Mama and Papa were caretakers of the church and fellowship hall for several years. They made sure everything was clean and bright for Sunday.

During one period of time our grandson, Charles D, always accompanied us to Merrillville. Papa and Mama made a fuss over him and he was a champ, even at 13 and 14, at taking their fond ribbing. One of his favorite things to do after lunch and after fulfilling all his familial duties was to investigate the neighborhood. If they were ripe, he might come back with a handful of peaches, or he might be gnawing through a sour seedy pomegranate.

There were so many good times over the years–family gatherings, homecoming at the church, a family project of taking down an overgrown hedge, a ride to the pond whether fishing or not. All was enhanced by Mama’s good cooking. But there came a time when she had to slow down, could no longer heft the big iron pan onto the stove and turn out a great platter of country fried steak. I remember fondly a period of time when our children were grown and Charles and I alone would leave after church in Cairo to head to Merrillville by way of Wendy’s in Thomasville where we picked up hamburgers.

At that time, Papa particularly craved a Wendy’s single hamburger, juicy with lettuce and tomatoes and accompanied by crisp fries, and we all chose the same. We’d all sit around the kitchen table enjoying lunch and talking. Papa wanted to report there was some kind of aphid on the butter bean leaves. Mama might be concerned about a neighbor who hadn’t shown up at church. Papa was full of stories about old times and loved telling his jokes. Mama scolded him for telling the same jokes she’d heard “a thousand times.” Charles entertained us with his latest sometimes gory veterinary experiences. We might all be enthusiastic about some upcoming event like Mule Day in Calvary, Georgia.

The seasons of life are like quilt pieces, each with its own pattern, its darks and lights. Each piece is to be treasured in its own way. As I drive by the turn to Merrillville I have a warm feeling, memories of good times, simple times, times we might have felt would go on forever. But no, times change, children grow up, active people become slow, and a garden place is occupied by a bright modular home hiding the view of the little white church from what was Mama and Papa’s back porch.

I’m thankful for the heritage of my husband’s parents, the good times, and the lessons they didn’t even know they were teaching us and our children. I’m thankful for those good memories that come to me as I pass the road to Merrillville, memories like a beautiful quilt so sweet to wrap up in on a rainy day.