Page 4 of Stronger Than Blood
“Well, of course.”
“I want you to get Granny Ida to go with you. She’s been cooped up in this old house every day this month and refuses to let me drag her out, complaining about all the canning she needs to do. She needs to get out, and I swear if she puts another can of anything on these shelves, they’re gonna come crashing down.”
Mrs. Stewart laughed. “You need to mind your own business about that canning, Mick. You’re liable to get skinned alive if you push that issue too hard. But, yeah, we were already thinking about inviting her. We’ll push a little harder, knowing you're concerned.”
“Then that’s well worth the effort to make you a pie. I’ve had a hankering to try out a new pineapple strawberry recipe. Is that okay for the cake?”
“Yes, sounds perfect as long as you do that amazing chocolate meringue. Don’t you tell anyone I said this, but yours is the best around. Woo, Lord, though, these old women wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if they thought I said a man cooks one better than them.”
I laughed, firstly ’cause Mrs. Stewart had to be at least eighty, and secondly, ’cause she was right. I might have a good reputation as a baker, but I would never go so far as to say I baked better than the women in these parts. No, that would be going way too far and likely putting my life in jeopardy.
I hung up and went in to have lunch. It was the same meal I’d loved since coming here when I was young. Mustard and turnip greens, purple hull peas—which I’d just hoed several rows of—green beans, turnips, and a pone of cornbread.
It always amused me that it was mostly vegetarian. Summers were like that on the farm. We seldom ate meat, but if I’deven suggested what we were doing was vegetarian, Granny Ida would’ve had a hissy fit.
To this day, I never understood why folks cared what others ate, especially when they ate that way themselves, but whether I understood or not was irrelevant. That wasn’t a subject I would ever bring up.
“Grandson?” Granny Ida asked as she sat across from me. I looked up to meet her gaze. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything for you. What can I do?”
She smiled. “Well, your Uncle Eddie’s shop needs to be cleaned out before we can sell it. Joann said she was in there before he passed, and it’s piled to the rafters with his old mess.”
Eddie was my grandmother’s younger brother, who’d passed away a couple of years back. He died without a will or descendants, so his belongings were split between his and Granny’s niece, my cousin, Joann and Granny, his two closest of kin.
Granny was sure Joann needed cash more than the store, so she agreed to have the attorney split it so there was just enough cash to handle all the taxes and let Joann have the rest. Which meant my ninety-year-old Granny owned a store she wasn’t even remotely able to clean out.
The town was growing, so I knew she needed to get it cleaned and sold before the townsfolk came after us with pitchforks. Plus, the money from the sale would make a good cushion in case we needed it to up her care at some point.
“I’m happy to help. I can call some friends to see if they want any of the stuff in there. Did someone empty out all the food, though?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t have a mess of spoiled food to dump.
“Oh yeah, the church went in after he died and moved all the stuff that wasn’t expired over to the food pantry. But, son, if’n my memory serves me right, the back’s just packed full of stuff,and ain’t no use doing nothin' ‘til all of it’s gone. Of course, I recommend just bulldozing it, but you know, now Betty Sue is the new mayor, she’s gotten plumb ridiculous about them old buildings.”
“That’s a good thing, Grandma,” I said, but I was still amused by her thoughts on Uncle Eddie’s store.
The truth was it was beautiful. It was a corner building that’d once been the town’s bank, so it was decked out with marble and columns. It was probably the most beautiful building in Piston Creek, except it was run-down, and Uncle Eddie never showed any interest in the outside. At one time, it’d been his upholstery shop, but after the old service station and the local grocery store had closed, he began selling stuff like cold drinks and candy bars. Mostly, it was junk food, but it did provide some sort of service to the community that had to drive at least thirty minutes to get to a real grocery store.
Truth be known, I dreaded cleaning it out. But if I could recruit some help, I’m sure there was plenty to be salvaged.
“Oh, Mrs. Stewart asked me to bake a cake and pie for Sunday, so I think I’ll come back to town and go to church with you.”
“That’ll be sweet of you, Mick!” she said proudly. “You know, I wish you’d find a good place to worship in town, but I do love it when you come home.”
She did. Service was a huge social event at the Piston Creek Methodist Church. And when it was potluck Sunday, well, that was the time to pull out all the stops. Although the national Methodist church had struggled to deal with folk like me, Piston Creek had always been different.
Now, I know that sounds the opposite of how things were supposed to be, considering it was in the rural South, but that’s how it was. Piston Creek Methodist had embraced me when I’d come out, and even the preacher, Pastor James, had come to sit with Grandma Ida and me.
“The Lord loves you how he made you, Mick, and that’s what we all gotta remember,” she’d said. “Now, don’t you ever avoid coming to church; you are welcome here, and don’t you forget that, you hear me?”
I’d cried like a baby that day. I was twenty-one and about to move out of Granny Ida’s house to live with my first boyfriend, Lynn. Lynn hadn’t worked out, but being so intensely embraced by my grandma, the family,andthe church meant more to me than I could say.
As was my way, memories came to me like watching television. Me trying to hide in my room, avoiding school, hiding there, too, only to have my great grandmother pull me out and making me “do chores,” but not really chores, as much as forcing me to interact with people.
My second cousin Joann, a principal at my school, followed the same game plan. At the end of the day, as bad as life with my mom had been, that’s how amazing it’d been with my Great Granny Ida.
Of course, the pastor and Granny had embraced me even though I was a fear-filled ragamuffin and street urchin when I got here. I would always be grateful for the love these people surrounded me with. I knew so many people like me hadn’t been as fortunate.
Chapter three
