A Successful Treasure Hunt 4/11/2021

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

Have you ever had really random memories just leap into your mind and you cannot for the life of you figure why they’ve suddenly appeared?  That has happened to me a great deal as of late.  I have had many different little snippets from the past travel through the viewfinder of my brain stirring up the pot of days gone by.  Sometimes it’s an unforgettable smell or some odd little catalyst that sheds light on a long darkened corner of my mind’s files.  So today, I hope you will humor me as I tell random tales, mostly from my long distant childhood, of fond moments.  Perhaps something from long ago will be awakened in your thoughts and you will be transported to another time and place that warms your heart. I would be happy to know that something I have written brought to mind some recollection that moves you.  Now, of course I would love to think my remembrance will make you smile or bring to you warmth and joy.  I would even appreciate a feeling of humorous disbelief at some of the foolish shenanigans that you managed to survive from your childhood. I can definitely say that I will be smiling as I write so if nothing else perhaps you can live vicariously through me.  I realize that may be very minimal in my aspirations for this blog but I try to be realistic.  Hopefully though I can in fact merit fond remembrances for you.

I want to start with time spent at the home of my maternal grandmother.  There are countless things I could recall but a few have proven prominent lately. I remember, for a brief period of time my Granny for some unknown reason had a very large horse named King.  She really had no need for one and I can’t think of any reason as to why she did have a horse but she did and I loved horses therefore during this visit I wanted to ride King. Now, apparently no one was particularly enthused about the prospect of taking me on a proper horseback ride so somehow I ended up just casually sitting on King’s back whilst he nonchalantly ate in the pasture. No, it wasn’t technically a horseback ride since no real traveling was involved.  I suppose it was more of a horseback sit. I also clearly remember somehow sliding off of King and thinking I was very near death dangling from his side. True, my toes were likely only a few feet from the ground as I hung there but this is merely a technicality. I survived the fall from a great steed.

I also remember at my Granny’s playing with my abundance of cousins in the storm pit.  It was a cinderblock structure dug into a hillside if I remember correctly and was a great fort or cave or any other structure needed for imaginative activities. We were forever finding eggs there where her chickens would leave stray treasures. I say treasures, the ones that were not found in a timely manner were definitely less treasure-esque in their nature. I personally don’t suppose I recall the storm pit ever being used for its intended purpose during inclement weather.  It was rather exclusively used as a temple of make-believe.  I daresay we all remember some special spot that was our altar to imagination when we were young.  I hope the children of today can have those same magical places beneath a canopy of trees or behind an old shed.  I hope technology doesn’t rob them of such enchanted places and times.

Beyond those fun times though is probably my single most memorable and fondest memory of anything that is distinctly a Granny’s house moment. I daresay many of you traditionally southern folk will likely find this tidbit highly relatable.  Any time we arrived at her house there was always a very high probability that there would be breakfast remnants sitting on the stove. There on a neatly folded paper towel, absorbing a glorious concoction of porcine grease and or butter there would be biscuit or two and some sausage patties.  If you came to Granny’s hungry, no matter the time of day, a little something could always be gathered from the paper towel on the stove. I close my eyes and can see it.  As a food lover that first glance to the kitchen was always full of excitement and promise. She made sure her people were fed; the epitome of the southern matriarch.

Such thoughts carry me also to my paternal side of the family where my Grandfather lived with my Aunt.  That woman could cook a cow hoof and somehow it would be an immaculate culinary experience. Her kitchen was plain but the smells that came from it were other worldly. Her chicken and dumplings are the ones specifically referenced in God’s recipe book.  That is the only explanation for their level of divinity.  I only recall one negative experience in her magnificent kitchen. As I mentioned I am a lover of food so when I saw what appeared to be a homemade yellow layer cake with chocolate icing sitting on her perpetually occupied cake plate my heart leapt within me.  It was only after my sampling of this dessert specimen that I learned that it was in fact a Lane cake and what I thought was chocolate icing was some horrific concoction of ground raisins and other whatnots. I loathe raisins and for them to masquerade as chocolate, on a cake especially, well, that is the highest form of confectionary blasphemy. I still to this day remember the trauma of perfectly lovely layers of buttery yellow cake being ruined with elderly grape remnants. So upsetting.  But the memory has stayed and the troubling qualities are mostly overshadowed by the hundreds of other glorious dishes that appeared on that old wooden table.

I also remember how excited I was to play in the fields when they planted winter rye instead of peanuts outside that same house. Running through though those tall blue-green rows lent itself well to journeying through charmed realms. Another memory of childhood full of such magic that has sprung to mind recently was the She-ra sword that my Daddy made me. He is ever the woodworker and carved a big heavy sword just like the one from the beloved cartoon. He even put an old crystal from a chandelier in it so it had a gem like the one used by the Princess of Power.  I suppose you can imagine my fondness for that sword. As a child it was cool beyond measure and as an adult I see it now as a very literal treasure of love in physical, touchable form.  I know how much work he put into that. I know why he did it.  I know there is no way I could have possibly cherished it enough.

I have told you all these random pieces of my past in hopes that you can enjoy them and relate. I also hope that within your deep recesses of thought that springs of remembrance bubble up. I hope some forgotten moment comes to the surface and sees the light of day that it hasn’t seen in ages. I hope that wellspring floods you with joy and love and makes itself a gift you can cling to in the driest of times.  All we have of the past is our memories.  That makes them treasures more valuable than gold.  Be sure to mine for them often and hold them tightly when found.