English: Breakfast with bread, butter, jam, fried eggs, bacon, tomato, orange juice and coffee. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There at the white with red stripe enamel table and red leatherette chairs, our granddaddy sat with us, playing Checkers or Blackjack, never for money and always for fun. Daddy Evans always looked happy.
When I was around nine or 10 years old, he and I were playing Blackjack at that kitchen table one time. I held 19 in my hand. Still, just for fun, I asked for another card, taking that wild child-like chance, to reach the magic number, 21. That time, Daddy Evans dealt out an Ace. We both laughed and smiled.
The little General Electric refrigerator sat behind us, cooling things, like milk in real glass bottles, Meadow Gold, pure, and cold, the way glass bottles keep milk so deliciously cold. That little refrigerator had legs and a rectangular body and something round on top.
It was shaped liked a person, holding many good things, like the milk in glass bottles and real butter. Our granddad liked real butter, not margarine.
Mama Evans, Daddy Evans’ wife (our paternal grandmother) made real homemade bread, in a long oval-shaped wooden bowl. That bowl is still in our family.
It was so warm and inviting, smelling that bread baking. Our favorite time was when the bread was just out of the oven, with the butter softened already, at room temperature. That warm homemade bread with butter melting…just imagine it. It’s almost too good to be true, isn’t it?
But we put the soft real butter on Mama Evans’ homemade bread, just the right texture. Mama Evans cut the bread in thick slices, but not too thick, for the real butter. Such a completely wonderful memory, that warm bread, just out of the oven, with melting butter.
You could sit at the white enamel table with the red stripe and see out the kitchen window, where glorious pine trees stood and the roses Mama Evans loved, in so many colors…in a round garden, when it was spring or summer, years later. I remember the holidays most, when we went to our grandparents’ for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Mama and Daddy Evans loved the wild outdoors and the cultivated outdoors too. Daddy Evans built a miniature log cabin for Mama Evans, near their place. It was our place, too. They loved us. The little cabin was so delicate and pretty and subtle, like our Mama Evans, but strong and sturdy too, like our Daddy Evans.
Mama and Daddy Evans’ home, in Oxford, Alabama, was so wonderful, with knotted-pine paneling in the den and one pale green bedroom, with an eggshell-white, hand-crocheted, bedspread. The Singer sewing machine sat in the pastel yellow bedroom. The sewing machine wasn’t electric. Mama Evans used her foot to make it go. One time, Mama Evans made me a pink corduroy jumper and matching blouse. Another time, she made homemade cookies, when it was my turn to bring cookies to my Brownies (before Girl Scouts) meeting.
Every morning at our grandparent’s home, coffee perked from a shiny silver-like electric coffee pot, so elegant…with a long, curved spout, the aroma of coffee filling the rooms, which had real wood floors. Mama Evans collected elegant teacups.
Daddy Evans liked creamer in his coffee, later. We took turns spooning the powdery creamer into Daddy Evans’ hot coffee, watching that creamer dissolve, into peace and happiness and wild contentment.
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