Flowing with Milk and Honey
I think my desire to leave city life and move to the country was caused by the tale of my two sets of grandparents. I had one set of grandparents who lived in town and one set of grandparents that lived in the country.
Town Grandpa lost his job during the depression. Town Grandpa and Grandma were reduced to eating potatoes, just potatoes through the depression. Their son, my father left home at 16 because he perceived that his parents couldn’t afford to feed him too.
Country Grandpa lost his job at the mill, and the bank foreclosed on his farm. But country Grandpa found an abandoned farm to rent and country Grandpa kept right on farming through the depression. Through the depression my country grandparents ate home grown pork, beef, and chicken. They had home raised milk, cheese, and butter. Country Grandpa also brought home pheasants and rabbits he hunted in the woods. Country Grandma had a huge garden. My country grandparents and their children ate well. Their rented farm was on a major east west road. Many homeless families stopped by on their way west. Country Grandma was able to feed them too. I think subconsciously I equate country life with abundance and town life with scarcity.
My country grandparents were still alive when I was growing up but my town grandparents weren’t. Country grandparents moved to the edge of suburbia to be near us grandkids. But even in his eighties, country Grandpa had a two acre garden and orchard. Every Sunday afternoon we’d spend with my Country grandparents. Country Grandma would cook us all sorts of wonderful things: apple brown betty, Peach cobbler, buckwheat pancakes, fried chicken, mashed potatoes saturated in butter, biscuits and gravy, fresh corn on the cob, strawberries and shortcake, fried catfish or trout, and fresh squeezed orange juice. Oh, and when I think back on the summer days when Grandpa’s apricots reached the peak of ripeness. The air would be fragrant and warm. And we would pick and eat as many apricots as we wanted. They would drop into our hands as we reached to pick them, soft and golden. They were like honey and rich and sweet as they melted in my mouth. Little wonder I wanted to live like my country grandparents who I perceived lived in the land flowing with milk and honey!
Town Grandpa lost his job during the depression. Town Grandpa and Grandma were reduced to eating potatoes, just potatoes through the depression. Their son, my father left home at 16 because he perceived that his parents couldn’t afford to feed him too.
Country Grandpa lost his job at the mill, and the bank foreclosed on his farm. But country Grandpa found an abandoned farm to rent and country Grandpa kept right on farming through the depression. Through the depression my country grandparents ate home grown pork, beef, and chicken. They had home raised milk, cheese, and butter. Country Grandpa also brought home pheasants and rabbits he hunted in the woods. Country Grandma had a huge garden. My country grandparents and their children ate well. Their rented farm was on a major east west road. Many homeless families stopped by on their way west. Country Grandma was able to feed them too. I think subconsciously I equate country life with abundance and town life with scarcity.
My country grandparents were still alive when I was growing up but my town grandparents weren’t. Country grandparents moved to the edge of suburbia to be near us grandkids. But even in his eighties, country Grandpa had a two acre garden and orchard. Every Sunday afternoon we’d spend with my Country grandparents. Country Grandma would cook us all sorts of wonderful things: apple brown betty, Peach cobbler, buckwheat pancakes, fried chicken, mashed potatoes saturated in butter, biscuits and gravy, fresh corn on the cob, strawberries and shortcake, fried catfish or trout, and fresh squeezed orange juice. Oh, and when I think back on the summer days when Grandpa’s apricots reached the peak of ripeness. The air would be fragrant and warm. And we would pick and eat as many apricots as we wanted. They would drop into our hands as we reached to pick them, soft and golden. They were like honey and rich and sweet as they melted in my mouth. Little wonder I wanted to live like my country grandparents who I perceived lived in the land flowing with milk and honey!
