The Art of Living Well

BOILING STONES
(Things a man can do in the kitchen)
© March 30, 2009
By: George O. Martin, Jr.

The Art of Living Well

If you have noticed in what I write, I often talk about a simpler time. The words and phrases I use, and the stories I tell might make you believe they were better times, or richer times, or more peaceful times; but in reality they were not. I have come to realize that I have a tendency to remember what pleased me back when I was not concerned with much more than me.
Those recollections are of things that were collected by a very young person. The time was one where I had everything done for me. I was a child and had no sense of being anything other than rich and well cared for in a very loving home.
It wasn’t until I became a parent that I realized how difficult life was when I was young; not for me but for those who made my early life such a pleasure. My parents were strapped for resources much of the time. There was little money and less hope, and there were children to rear. Bitterness put nothing on the table, rancor only caused dissention, and indolence only gathered fear. No child can grow where those things are evident, so my parents chose not to show any of them in our house. I took on that same pattern when my own children arrived.
What surprises me is how artfully my parents carved a good life for me from so little. We lived with no sense of want whatever, and we lived well. When I came home from school, I was ready for a change, and hungry for a snack just for me and not the whole class. My mother would carefully butter a slice of bread, while she asked about my day, and then sprinkle it with sugar as I answered. She would then offer it to me saying, “You worked hard at school. You need a treat.”
That simple reward made me work hard most days, and I looked forward to coming home to appreciation, and bread, butter and sugar. On a special occasion she would stir the un-homogenized peanut butter to smoothness and coat the bread carefully with that. Of course a bit of sugar was sprinkled on that, too. Life was indeed good because she took the time to carefully prepare that simple treat.
Evenings in the summer were long, and there was no television to keep our interest. So my father would sometimes take us for a walk to the railroad yards nearby. There we would watch the huge engines belch steam and smoke as they moved and sorted boxcars toward destination tracks. Sometimes a passenger train would come and briefly stop. Dad would tell us to wave at the passengers and smile. “You can make their trip more fun, and they will think we are the happiest people along the line.” He would say. When the people smiled and waved back, we felt happier, also.
When we got back home there was usually a plate of biscuits with jelly, a glass of milk, and tea for Dad and Mom. We would describe to Mother the engines we saw, and the people waving from the train. The conversations were so lively we never thought of the fact the biscuits were leftover from the night before when supper was biscuits and flour gravy. Bedtime came and dreams of being the passengers came with it. I traveled many miles then, and never left the bedroom.
In the winter evenings were short and we came in from play early. Cold kept us in sweaters around the dining room table and a jigsaw puzzle. My brothers would look for all the red colors, or all the blue. I searched for the edges, the borders. Sister worked on the buildings or peoples faces. Without being noticed Mother would go into the kitchen. After a time she would call us as she removed a tray of warm scones from the oven. A pitcher of milk and the pleasant warmth of the oven prepared us for bed.
Sometimes a scone was placed on a saucer, and one of us would be told to take it to Mrs. Stroh next door. She was a widow, and her children were grown and gone. Even with little we learned to share.
When seasons changed, or clothes grew too small, garments in good repair were offered to the family three doors down. They had more children and fewer resources, and everything given was helpful. On Saturdays we would go with the boys of that family to find wood to burn in their kitchen stove. That mother baked the best cookies the world has ever seen in that cast iron monster. We would bring wagons full of sticks and broken lumber to keep it working. The rewards for our labors were delicious. The heat from our wood greatly appreciated.
Now I hardly know the people three doors down. I can’t remember the last time I was rewarded with bread, butter and sugar. In a closet somewhere are jigsaw puzzles we are going to put together someday. Some day when we have little more than time, and we can be all the richer, all the more peaceful, and all the better because of it; someday, when we can be a family, and neighbors once again.