Remembering Sunday Mornings with Grandmother

Sundays always make me think of my grandmother. We would go to church with her and then later have dinner with the family at her house. Every Sunday was almost like Thanksgiving – there was always so much food – good, home-cooked food.

We lost grandmother in 2007, but I have her Bible. She recorded births and deaths as well as marriages. By those of use who divorced later, she put a small letter d by the names. On the first page of Genesis, where it starts with “In the beginning...,”  she has written “I believe.” It gives me great comfort to go through her Bible and notice the passages she marked and the notes she made. And she did all this back when it was considered sacriligious to make marks in the Bible.

I took a poetry writing class a few months ago and in memory of my grandmother on this Sunday morning, here it is:

Sunday Morning with Grandmother

Sunday morning before church,

her lips freshly painted pink,

pearls adorn her neck,

her hair is perfectly coifed.

But she wears only her slip,

so as not to mess her dress.

With self-manicured fingers,

nails the same shade as her lips,

she sifts the flour, the handle

squeaks with every turn.

A small mountain of powder

rises in the aluminum bowl,

battered from years of daily use.

She adds a small scoop of Crisco,

kneading the mealy mixture

with her left hand

while adding buttermilk

with the other, molding

it to a ball of dough.

She plops it on wax paper,

rolling it flat, lightly

sprinkling flour across it. She

takes the biscuit cutter

twisting it in the dough

forming perfect circles,

placed side by side, edges

barely touching.

As they bake,

she slips on her dress,

the green one

with the paisley print,

then slides into her best

sensible shoes.

She glimpses her reflection,

coats her lips again

and pats a strand of hair

back into place.

She takes the biscuits

from the oven, placing one

on a plate with a little butter

and apple jelly, my favorite.

She places it before me,

an unexpected treat

I delight in.

She hums

How Great Thou Art,

while preparing the dinner

our family will enjoy later.

As we walk into

Beaumont Baptist Church,

the organ howls as she places

two shiny quarters in my hand

for the collection plate.

I wish I had the courage

to keep them for myself

as my little brother

so often does.

©connie thompson kuhn