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  Sometimes I wish I could rewind time and hear that old wind-up clock that sat on my grandmother’s mantel chime just one more time.  It had been sitting there in the same place, striking the hour and half hour, between the two pictures of my grandparents for many years. The young girl with her dancing eyes and the knowing smile, you just knew she was holding a marvelous secret.  The boy looks much older in his wide brimmed hat and string tie, but I doubt he was a day over the legal age. 

  In my memories, the old house remains the same, no paint, long front porch, and a chipped enamel water bucket holding a metal community dipper, and the chair where my grandaddy sat and whittled small delicate animals with his small pocketknife.

  The front parlor held a bed, a big iron frame, covered in a patch work quilt.  Some of the patches were from my grandmother’s flowered aprons and some from my grandaddy’s striped overalls and some from many of the dresses I had seen my mother wear.  The long cedar chest, my treasure chest, lined the back wall of the tiny-planked bedroom.  This old box held endless surprises and timeless treasures for me as a child.  It swaddled my great grandmother’s tatted lace doilies, my Aunt Idie’s red checkered bonnet with the cardboard stays, my deceased two-year-old uncle’s pictures who had died from some mysterious disease at the age of two, and my grandmother’s wedding dress, white lace yellowed with age.

  The old wood cook stove with its iron eyes, always holding a pot of mud colored coffee warm from the burning of blackjack wood.  She cooked more meals on that old stove than I will ever prepare in my lifetime. The long planked handmade wooden table loaded with food, and my grandaddy’s two huge butter filled biscuits and my grandmother’s tall green glass of RC cola and iced tea.

  No running water so no inside facilities so there was a small outhouse just down the hill from the back porch.  It was gray and unpainted, just like the house.  And the big red rooster that attacked me when I ran down the hill.

Oh yes, and always a treat, the big yellow school bus that was changed into a wandering grocery store from which she would always buy her staples and me some of the penny candies. 

The old house fell some years ago, I believe from loneliness that is if a home can feel abandoned.  My two favorite people have moved on to their final rest but here, here inside my heart’s memory, that old house is still standing and all the times are still as strong and powerful as yesterday.

My Grandmother’s Scratch Biscuits and Tips

She said to always think cold.  Make sure all our ingredients are cold.    Biscuits need to be super cold when thy hit the hot oven.  Always mix in a “biscuit” bowl. 2 cups self-rising flour, 1 tbsp. sugar, ¼ cup of shortening, (she used hog lard) 1 cup of cold buttermilk, 1 tbsp. mayonnaise.  Cut shortening into flour with hands and n then mix other ingredients.  She would then pinch off just enough for a biscuit and roll out and place on a flat cast iron skillet and cook in a 450-degree oven for 15 minutes.

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