The Grands of Growing Up
A recent study completed by the University of Oxford show that there are key scientific benefits to children being raised around their grandparents. It is a fact that grandparents play a high-level role in the emotional as well as behavioral development of children. (It is also a fact that at times they have a common enemy). Grandparents consistently surrounded by their grandchildren tend to live longer lives, too. As my husband and I consider moving closer to my in-laws, I can’t help but think about the long-term benefits that will evolve for both my in-laws and my own children. I also think about the grandparents of my personal, everyday childhood with fondness and full-on belly laughter.
At some point during my childhood, my paternal grandmother moved in with us to help with our busy life as my mother re-entered the work force (and so that she wouldn’t have to live alone after my grandfather passed). My parents turned our living room into a makeshift bedroom as they added on an in-law suite to their house, and eventually my friends got to know my granny on a personal level. In fact, most of them still only refer to her as ‘Butta Beans”. Now, “Butta Beans” was never her given grandmother name, as we called her “Granny”, but for whatever reason she was always cooking butter beans, and my friends would get tickled by her talking about the food so much. Fun tidbit- I have never liked butter beans. I didn’t as a child, and I still don’t as an adult.
A few other things stick out when I remember my grandmother being around us during our formidable years. She always asked me to help her make a dessert that my mother requested her to make, but for some reason I would end up being the only one doing the baking. Maybe she was over cooking at that age? I could understand that. I always liked baking, so I would happily oblige, although I usually ended up going at it on my own. Regardless, I learned how to make a mean chocolate chess pie and apple-cream pie with a perfected merengue. And thanks to Granny, my merengues became work of art. You could climb those peaks.
Another strange thing she would do is answer the phone on my behalf, the exact same two ways, every time. When my friends called our house phone, no matter what season, what month, or what time, she would always respond, “Susannah’s not here. She’s at the ballgame” or “Susannah’s out bicycling.” Ninety-eight percent of the time, neither were true, but for whatever reason, those were her go to answers.
A favorite grandparent of my childhood years has to be a woman we called “Honey.” She was the very present and happily involved grandmother of one of my dearest childhood friends, and she was the epitome of the Southern housewife with classic manners and exquisite taste. It took me years to wrap my head around the fact that the skating rink diamonds on her fingers were not just costume jewelry, and I hung on to any advice she would give us as she always seemed so glamorous. I’ll never forget, sitting in her kitchen while having a snack when Honey gave us some nutrition advice, “Girls, enjoy this bread now, because when you get older it will go straight to your hips.” I chewed my bread as my carb loving self processed the information.
“No bread when I’m older?” I thought to myself in panic.
It was a concept I still cannot get past. Heavy hips or not, I’ll never get over my love of carbs and baked goods. Honey also told us to keep peppermints in the bedside table for when our husbands woke up in the morning. My poor husband just gets a retainer mouth, drool, and a snoring Labrador retriever next to him. I’m sure he wishes I had followed Honey’s advice.
Perhaps the funniest grandparent in my childhood years was good ole Papaw Tony. Papaw Tony was the loud, heavy smoking, Italian grandfather of another girlfriend of mine. When we were teenagers, Papaw Tony showed up for a couple of days just to “visit” and ended up staying until he died a few years later. Papaw Tony was a character. There could be an entire movie made about his checkered life and eccentric personality, but no one would believe it was a true story with all of his antics. Almost immediately he took it upon himself to rename the elderly family dog from Jasper to Sunshine, then would feed the pet homemade meatballs (that were delicious by the way) because he thought it was funny to see the tomato sauce on Jasper/Sunshine’s furry, white face. Tony was also a devout catholic and lover of the sun – always bronzing his skin on the patio while covered in olive oil (because someone told him it was good for him) and smoking his cigarettes in the Mississippi heat. If he got too hot, he’d wet his whistle by swigging coffee mixed with a splash of holy water that he confiscated earlier from the local catholic church in high hopes the blessed water would increase his chances of winning the lottery. Tony would fill up entire jugs of the holy water and drive them home when no one was looking. He was an absolute, hilarious mess, and we howl with laughter at Papaw Tony stories still to this day.
There was a Gaa and an Oma while we were growing up, too. Gaa was a quiet and petite Canadian woman with a tight, curly haircut, a hint of an ever-present mustache, and a knack for style. For some reason, she always asked for hand-me-down halter tops in high school and college. We still don’t know where Gaa went in those things. And poor Gaa was the recipient of many a prank call after a six pack of beer. I have no doubt she most likely knew exactly where those calls were coming from. Oma was the strong, German grandmother of a friend. Her accent and attitude would make you love her from the get-go. And she was tough as nails. Oma refused to evacuate her coastal Mississippi home during Hurricane Katrina and survived that category five disaster by hanging onto an armoire until she was rescued. That’s pretty incredible if you ask me. And she’s still kicking it to this day.
Looking back, I’m grateful for all of those grands we had while growing up. They sure did provide our impressionable young minds life lessons, great recipes, hilarious stories, and proper etiquette tips whether they knew it or not. I can’t wait to see who all the grands of growing up will be for my kids, and what stories they will have to tell when they’re older. So, if you’re raising kiddos right now, get them around those grandparents- any grandparents. It will be sure to enrich the lives of both. And if you’re currently a grandparent, know that what you say and do can leave quite the impression. Someone just might write a story about it one day.
This recipe from Southern Sideboards circa 1978 has been my go-to for Chocolate Chess Pie since I was a third grader. Trust me, if I can take over for my grandmother and whip this up as a child, anybody can. Top it with a scoop of coffee and/or vanilla ice cream to take it to the next level.
Good ole Papaw Tony needed this mug for his coffee. That splash of holy water was his secret ingredient.
Now - this is a true treat. Papaw Tony’s daughter made this beautiful quilt for her family member. It has his unbelievable meatball recipe on it. I have the most vivid memories of how delicious they were- and how messy Jasper/ Sunshine’s face was.
Who knew some of the best olive oil was made in Georgia? The oil from Woodpecker Trail Olive Farm is 100% authentic US grown, award winning, cold pressed EVOO in Georgia. In 2015 they installed a 6,000 olive tree orchard. Woodpecker Trail Olive Farm produces sustainable small batch, certified extra virgin olive oil in the heart Magnolia Midlands Glennville, Georgia. Papaw Tony would have loved to cook with it AND use it as tanning oil.
An oldie but a goodie- “Sh*t My Dad Says” is an always hilarious read. When the author was dumped by his longtime girlfriend, twenty-eight-year-old Justin Halpern found himself living at home with his seventy-three-year-old dad. Sam Halpern, who is "like Socrates, but angrier, and with worse hair," has never minced words, and when Justin moved back home, he began to record all the ridiculous things his dad said to him. Sounds like Sam would have made a hilarious grand of growing up.