How Sweet It Is (6 page)
When I push open the sliding glass door leading to the deck, I think of how I spread the mounds of thick whipped cream onto the buttery crust of that pastry over a decade ago.
Two squirrels scamper over a mossy tree stump, reminding me that I’m not in Atlanta anymore. I take in the serene vista from the wide deck. Here at the end of April, the landscape of distant sloping mountain peaks still holds a wintery feel. There is promise of gentle green, but for the most part, the hues are still stark and brown. Except for the evergreens. Their bushy limbs spread across the pine-needle-covered terrain around me and soak up the sun’s rays.
As a sparrow darts toward one of the limbs, I stand as tall as I can, lifting my chin toward a pale sky with broken clouds. I breathe in the moist earthy air and then attempt a smile. My tear-stained cheeks feel raw; I smile as broadly as I can—hopeful.
“I’m here for a new start,” I say aloud, and am surprised that my voice does not waver or crack as it glides toward the mountain peak. From behind the cabin, the familiar mew of a catbird replies. Catbirds greeted me every afternoon in Tifton when the bus brought me home from school. Whenever I hear them I can’t help but think of my customary after-school snack of milk and peanut butter oatmeal cookies.
Through a cluster of tree trunks to the right of the driveway, I can see one distant house the color of oregano. A gravel road winds around it. No other houses are close by, and I have the feeling that, except for nature, I’m alone.
When a breeze picks up, I head inside to continue the task of unpacking. I find room for
Easy Cooking
in the narrow bookcase that rests against the wall by the fireplace.
The case sits under an ink drawing of an ornate elephant. The beast is draped in cloths that flash red and blue jewels. On his head is a crown with sparkling diamonds. His trunk is raised and mouth opened. He is either protesting all the adornments or proud to look so majestic.
I think to myself that I probably own more cookbooks than Julia Child. I unpack each of the colorful books containing glossy photos of prize-winning desserts; each tome is almost as heavy as a sack of cake flour. I have a complete set of
Southern Living
cookbooks and one by James Beard that has a burned patch on the cover.
Am I really going to teach children how to cook? Why would my grandfather make this request of me? Why would he think I could do it?
A cookbook that does not belong to me catches my eye. The spine reads
101 Ways to Create Fabulous Cakes.
I take the book from the shelf, and the layered lemon cake on the cover looks good enought to eat. When I open the first page, something falls from it onto the floor. I pick up a white businesssized envelope. When I turn it over I see my name printed in bold letters:
FOR DEENA.
E
asing myself onto a throw rug the color of raspberries, I cross my legs. I’ve sat like this since I was a little girl in Girl Scouts. I feel like a kid now, getting ready to open something that holds an element of surprise. I finger the white envelope for a moment. Then I guess. From the feel of it, the contents must be thin, like a sheet of paper. It could be a photo wrapped in paper. A check? Cash?
Inserting my finger under the back flap of the envelope, I open it. Reaching inside, I take out a folded legal-sized sheet of yellow, lined paper. I unfold the page to view a handwritten letter addressed to me.
Dear Deena,
Life is never as we expect it.
The love of my life died early. Your grandmother was only sixty-one. But she could have been seventy-one or ninety-one—any time to lose her would not have been a good time.
She encouraged me, Deena. She loved her children and grandchildren. She loved life, the rolling hills in the summer, green with life, the frozen pond in the winter. She taught me how to ice skate, how to listen for each bird and learn its call.
Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world. Our sorrows often multiply, our disappointments increase, and our hearts are heavy. Perhaps this life is not the one we would have chosen. Ah yes, we would choose ease over growth, riches over courage.
How can one live amidst all the barbs of this life? I have struggled to find out how, and have always come up with the same answer: Trust God. Put your whole hand in His, not just one finger or two. Get to know the feel of your hand in His. This is the only way I have found to live, really live.
“The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.” Martha Washington said that, and I can’t help but find a great deal of truth in her statement.
So I must conclude that life is never as we expect it. Life is what we make it.
I want you to try my recipe for Southern Peanut Soup. See if you can taste all the flavors. Sometimes you have to concentrate on the good in order to experience it. The good stuff in life doesn’t always come with a big sign around its neck. We have to look, to seek. You can’t help but find when your hand is firmly encased in His.
Love,
Your Grandpa Ernest
P.S. Eat the soup from the bowl with the raccoon.
I read the letter aloud two times. In between I sniff the paper, note the curve of his letter T, and then study the envelope. I wonder why he never mailed it. There is no date on the letter, no postage. How did he know I would come to live here? Did he write it long ago or just before his stroke? He died instantly, they said. One minute he was enjoying a ride on a sailboat on the coast of the Greek island of Kos, and the next, he toppled over into the ocean. But here is this letter to me, hidden in a cookbook, of all things.
I finger the cookbook, open it, and note the inscription:
To Grandpa Ernest, with love from Deena.
When did I send this book to him? Did I mail it? I try to recall, but I’m blanking out on any memory of giving this cookbook to my grandfather.
I read the letter again, pausing after each paragraph, wondering what he hoped to convey to me. Why did he feel the need to write these words to me? I know that in his will, he left instructions to give me this cabin. I’m still not sure why I am the one he bequeathed it to; he has seven other grandchildren. One lives in Los Angeles and has been on TV commercials for toilet cleaners and stain removers. He looks honest as he tells viewers that there is no other product that can do the job like Insta-Clean and Foam-Away. Why did Grandpa choose me over him?
To add to my confusion, now there’s this letter that talks about God and peanut soup. If Grandpa wrote it after my accident, perhaps he was trying to encourage me. But how did Grandpa know how I was feeling? “
Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world.”
As I read the words this time, I feel the backs of my eyes stinging. Giving in to tears again will surely leave me useless the rest of the day. And I have unpacking to do, and a heart to mend.
When the doorbell rings, I hope it’s Grandpa Ernest so I can ask him the questions that have formed tangles in my mind.
I open the door to find a man standing on the stoop by the chopped firewood. His back is to me, and it looks like he is testing the railing of the stoop by kicking the wood with his leather boot.
T
he man is wearing dark jeans, a checkered shirt the color of roasted duck, and a bright yellow bandana around his head. In his hand is a large wrench. He turns to greet me with a boyish smile. “Well, hello.”
He is not my grandpa back from the dead. Tentatively, I say, “Hello.” I’m in the mountains—home to boiled peanuts and apple cider. Surely everything is congenial and kind here. This man isn’t on “America’s Most Wanted.” I’ve left Atlanta behind.
With arms crossed around his trim waist, he says, “You must be Deirdre.”
“No. No, I’m not.”
He raises an eyebrow and I say, “Maybe you have the wrong house.”
In a methodical tone, as if from memory, he tells me, “Pass the red barn, Memorial Methodist Church, first right.”
Is he giving the location of this cabin? I’m surprised he didn’t mention “And turn down the gravel path that is too narrow to be called a road—the one with no guardrails and no room for any large vehicle.” I thought I was heading over the cliff yesterday.
His eyes are brown and deep-set, and his hair is auburn streaked with wisps of gray. He has the widest mouth I’ve ever seen. When he smiles, I see what appear to be hundreds of teeth stretching for yards. “You’re Ernest’s granddaughter,” he says. “His granddaughter.”
That part he has right. “Yes.”
“Yes siree. Regena Lorraine told me about you.” He shuffles his shoes, looks at them, and then peers again at me.
“Oh?” I imagine my aunt sitting down with this man and spilling out my recent past, fretting over my romance-gone-bad as she encourages him to drink a cup of sassafras tea.
If she’s told him all about me, why did she forget to tell me about him?
With a grin, he says, “Told me you’re from Atlanta. Yes, yes, siree.” His tone has a halting quality about it, almost as though he is reading his words from a script he isn’t fully comfortable with.
“I’m Deena.”
His large, calloused, warm hand grips mine. “I’m Jonas.
I’m here to fix the pipes.”
“Is something wrong with the pipes?” I have visions of water leaking while I sleep and waking to find my bed being carried by torrents out of the cabin, over the cliffs, down to Fontana Lake.
He winks. Few people can pull off a wink without looking corny. He is one of the few. “You can never be too sure. Never too sure.” With that, he enters the cabin, his heavy work boots crushing the hardwood. He seems harmless and a little different.
He sees I’ve been unpacking. I watch his eyes rove among the boxes sitting on the sofa, the countertops, the dining room floor.
“Don’t let me bother you, Deirdre. You go right on doing what you need to do.” He swings his wrench a little too swiftly for my comfort. “Yes siree. I’ll be checking.”
This time when he smiles, I think part of his mouth has stretched clear to Tennessee.
M
iriam runs The Center at the Nantahala Presbyterian Church in Bryson City. I suppose her title would be Director. She’s part Cherokee and part Swiss, she tells me. Her eyes are the kind of blue that makes me think of an autumn sky, and her skin is creamy brown. Her hair is shiny, like the coat of a seal. Immediately, I am surprised to see that although she is dressed in Ann Taylor’s newest spring line—a scoop-neck aqua satin blouse and black skirt—on her feet are grass-green tennis shoes.
She tells me that my grandfather was a big supporter of The Center and of her desire to establish a 501(c)(3) organization to keep kids off the streets after school and during the summer months. I am learning new things about my grandpa every day. It’s like Christmas, opening all of these surprising revelations. I used to think all he cared about was food and travel.
We stand in Miriam’s office, a tiny compartment to the left of the hallway in an annexed section of the church. I wonder why a director doesn’t wear heels. She tells me how the younger kids in the preschool program at the church enjoyed having my grandfather read books to them. “Dr. Seuss was never the same for me after your grandfather read
Oh, the Places You’ll Go
. We all miss him here.” Her smile is warm; her eyes sparkle.