Remember a while back when I said that I was going to write something up and read it at my family reunion? Well I did it. And I didn't even shake........too much. And I didn't cry. And I survived. And it was a hit. Here goes...............
What do you think of when you think of your Bedelia family? A lot of stuff comes to my mind. A lot of memories. A lot of fun times. And a few that weren't so fun.
I remember when we were growing up, we would all climb into the family station wagon and head to the town of O. I always looked forward to it because it meant that I was going to get to play with those cousins that I only got to see and play with during the family reunion.
It meant that I was going to get to see all my aunts and uncles that I didn't get to see very often. Although I didn't always appreciate the hugs and kisses that I was showered with, I took 'em like a soldier. Because that's what you did. It was called respect for your elders. Sadly, this is something that has gotten lost with time.
When I think of my Bedelia family, I think of my Grandma and Grandpa Bedelia's home. It was so big to me back then. It seemed like there were a million and one places to hide as well as a million and one places that we weren't even supposed to be in! Remember the beauty shop on the front porch? I could have spent every day of my summer in that room!
And the day I learned that the little kitchen table went up into the wall, I was pretty sure they had found a secret that nobody else in the world had found. I had never seen anything like that before and thought that might have been the smartest invention ever. I loved that the bathroom had two doors in it. Until people started walking in on me when I was trying to use the toilet!
There were two places that I wasn't allowed to play in at Grandma and Grandpa's house. The basement and the creamery building. The only time I could go down in the basement was when I was needed to help carry jars of food up or empty ones down. And the only time I was allowed in the creamery was if Grandpa was with me. He was sure I would get hurt in there.
Apparently Grandpa had me mixed up with some of the other ornery grandkids because I was the angel. The shy and quiet one. I'm sure it was hard for him to keep everybody straight though. They had like six hundred grandkids. It's okay though. The creamery was pretty intimidating to me anyway.
One of the last memories I can easily pull up is that when we piled into that station wagon, it also meant that there was going to be food. Lots and lots of food. Probably the best food on the planet. And I love food! I can still taste my Grandma's potato salad. Isn't that funny? Something as simple as potato salad? I probably don't make it any different than she did but hers was much much better.
Aunt Grace shared a story with me and it comes to mind every single time I go to the town of O. I drive by that house that we had so many good times in
and realize that no matter what............that house.............that property.......will never be the same.
The Missing Ingredient
My recipe box isn't just a box of recipes. It's a magical box, filled to overflowing with wonderful sweet memories of a past long gone, but forever remembered and cherished.
One recipe in the box, however, always seemed to have something missing. The finished product didn't taste just right. One of my favorites, Grandma's spice cake, never quite passed the taste test when I baked it. As I pulled the card from the box and scrutinized that recipe, I wondered what had been left out as I copied it from my Mother's recipe book. There weren't any dried apples called for in the recipe, yet I remembered the delight in biting into a piece of one. My mother, when asked, said, "Oh, Mama just liked to add a few dried apples once in a while for a change, when she happened to have some."
Well, this time, I just happened to have dried apples myself, thanks to a bountiful harvest in my Dad's orchard the year before. After making pies for the freezer, canning applesauce and enough jelly to last for years, I decided to try my luck with dried apples. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the missing ingredient I'd tried to find for so many years.
As the raisins were put to boil, I thought about the many times in adolescence that we children (pick a number up to twelve) would spill out of the old Model T into Grandpa's or Grandma's waiting arms then scatter like a bunch of chicks turned loose on a warm spring morning, going in search of nature's treasures.
The spice, leavening and salt were sifted into the flour as I remembered the run through the yard, kicking up our heels, swinging our arms, and shouting joyously until we came to the barnyard gate. We had to pause there a while in anticipation of the wonderful, magical moments that we knew lay ahead of us.
As the sugar was whipped with the shortening and the eggs broken and added, I continued slowly crossing the barnyard toward the dusty interior of the barn,where we explored the mysteries of the hidden hen nests, baby pigeons cooing on the roof rafters, and sometimes a baby calf in a holding pen. I always had to stop and admire the horse harness hanging on the wall in the back of the stalls. Of course, my older brothers never understood that I could find them fascinating in any way, and I couldn't understand why they thought the sight of them said, "work."
While I was strolling joyously down memory lane, the cake, somehow, found it's way into the oven. However, my journey never stopped, nor even slowed down. As we left the barn, we came to the big watering tank that was always so tempting, but forbidden, so we settled for leaning on the edge of the tank and watching reflections of clouds as they floated gracefully across the water.
Then, as if on a given signal, we left through the big gate, and out of the barnyard, through the cowslips into the timber pasture. What joy! I loved to see the cowslips in bloom, though they didn't smell very pretty. As we reached the edge of the woods, we began to slow more and more. Here was a dry creek bed. There were children scattered over the creek, the banks and nearby woods. We never were far apart, as there were always little ones to watch and protect.
Just as diligently as we cared for them, we tried not to miss any opportunity to show them something new and wonderful. We all had great curiosity and were forever looking for new wild flowers among the familiar, a new species of bug or butterfly; yet we never really stopped until we turned the bend in the creek that revealed "the old keel mine." I never did know if there was ever a mine there. I only know there was a large portion of the creek that held layers of keel, and the fascination of it never dimmed. This was home base for a while. We roamed the woods, dug in the dirt, admired the rocks in the creek bed, watched the birds, the squirrels or insects, gathered nuts or flowers, explored the many colored pieces of keel, or found a piece to write or draw with on a hard rock; each of us busy with whatever particular joy that suited our fancy.
Cutting into my thoughts, the timer was telling me to remove the cake from the oven, and in recollection, I heard the dinner bell that was mounted on a pole in the backyard. We were called to Grandma's table by the tolling of that bell on many occasions. It seemed the ten minute cooling time for the cake would never end, but I finally sat down with a glass of cold milk and a large square of unfrosted cake, with a piece of dried apple peeking at me from here and there. Once again, I was sitting in a warm friendly kitchen with my legs under a large table that was covered with a fresh white cloth and surrounded by highbacked wooden runged chairs that seemed to be forever beckoning. Before me was a dazzling display of cut glass jelly dishes - they were round, square, oval, single, divided, flat or stemmed, and each was holding a different kind of jelly, jam or preserves.
I bit into my dried apple spice cake and knew with the first bite that the missing ingredient was not the apples. The missing ingredient was GRANDMA.
I remember when we were growing up, we would all climb into the family station wagon and head to the town of O. I always looked forward to it because it meant that I was going to get to play with those cousins that I only got to see and play with during the family reunion.
It meant that I was going to get to see all my aunts and uncles that I didn't get to see very often. Although I didn't always appreciate the hugs and kisses that I was showered with, I took 'em like a soldier. Because that's what you did. It was called respect for your elders. Sadly, this is something that has gotten lost with time.
When I think of my Bedelia family, I think of my Grandma and Grandpa Bedelia's home. It was so big to me back then. It seemed like there were a million and one places to hide as well as a million and one places that we weren't even supposed to be in! Remember the beauty shop on the front porch? I could have spent every day of my summer in that room!
And the day I learned that the little kitchen table went up into the wall, I was pretty sure they had found a secret that nobody else in the world had found. I had never seen anything like that before and thought that might have been the smartest invention ever. I loved that the bathroom had two doors in it. Until people started walking in on me when I was trying to use the toilet!
There were two places that I wasn't allowed to play in at Grandma and Grandpa's house. The basement and the creamery building. The only time I could go down in the basement was when I was needed to help carry jars of food up or empty ones down. And the only time I was allowed in the creamery was if Grandpa was with me. He was sure I would get hurt in there.
Apparently Grandpa had me mixed up with some of the other ornery grandkids because I was the angel. The shy and quiet one. I'm sure it was hard for him to keep everybody straight though. They had like six hundred grandkids. It's okay though. The creamery was pretty intimidating to me anyway.
One of the last memories I can easily pull up is that when we piled into that station wagon, it also meant that there was going to be food. Lots and lots of food. Probably the best food on the planet. And I love food! I can still taste my Grandma's potato salad. Isn't that funny? Something as simple as potato salad? I probably don't make it any different than she did but hers was much much better.
Aunt Grace shared a story with me and it comes to mind every single time I go to the town of O. I drive by that house that we had so many good times in
and realize that no matter what............that house.............that property.......will never be the same.
The Missing Ingredient
My recipe box isn't just a box of recipes. It's a magical box, filled to overflowing with wonderful sweet memories of a past long gone, but forever remembered and cherished.
One recipe in the box, however, always seemed to have something missing. The finished product didn't taste just right. One of my favorites, Grandma's spice cake, never quite passed the taste test when I baked it. As I pulled the card from the box and scrutinized that recipe, I wondered what had been left out as I copied it from my Mother's recipe book. There weren't any dried apples called for in the recipe, yet I remembered the delight in biting into a piece of one. My mother, when asked, said, "Oh, Mama just liked to add a few dried apples once in a while for a change, when she happened to have some."
Well, this time, I just happened to have dried apples myself, thanks to a bountiful harvest in my Dad's orchard the year before. After making pies for the freezer, canning applesauce and enough jelly to last for years, I decided to try my luck with dried apples. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the missing ingredient I'd tried to find for so many years.
As the raisins were put to boil, I thought about the many times in adolescence that we children (pick a number up to twelve) would spill out of the old Model T into Grandpa's or Grandma's waiting arms then scatter like a bunch of chicks turned loose on a warm spring morning, going in search of nature's treasures.
The spice, leavening and salt were sifted into the flour as I remembered the run through the yard, kicking up our heels, swinging our arms, and shouting joyously until we came to the barnyard gate. We had to pause there a while in anticipation of the wonderful, magical moments that we knew lay ahead of us.
As the sugar was whipped with the shortening and the eggs broken and added, I continued slowly crossing the barnyard toward the dusty interior of the barn,where we explored the mysteries of the hidden hen nests, baby pigeons cooing on the roof rafters, and sometimes a baby calf in a holding pen. I always had to stop and admire the horse harness hanging on the wall in the back of the stalls. Of course, my older brothers never understood that I could find them fascinating in any way, and I couldn't understand why they thought the sight of them said, "work."
While I was strolling joyously down memory lane, the cake, somehow, found it's way into the oven. However, my journey never stopped, nor even slowed down. As we left the barn, we came to the big watering tank that was always so tempting, but forbidden, so we settled for leaning on the edge of the tank and watching reflections of clouds as they floated gracefully across the water.
Then, as if on a given signal, we left through the big gate, and out of the barnyard, through the cowslips into the timber pasture. What joy! I loved to see the cowslips in bloom, though they didn't smell very pretty. As we reached the edge of the woods, we began to slow more and more. Here was a dry creek bed. There were children scattered over the creek, the banks and nearby woods. We never were far apart, as there were always little ones to watch and protect.
Just as diligently as we cared for them, we tried not to miss any opportunity to show them something new and wonderful. We all had great curiosity and were forever looking for new wild flowers among the familiar, a new species of bug or butterfly; yet we never really stopped until we turned the bend in the creek that revealed "the old keel mine." I never did know if there was ever a mine there. I only know there was a large portion of the creek that held layers of keel, and the fascination of it never dimmed. This was home base for a while. We roamed the woods, dug in the dirt, admired the rocks in the creek bed, watched the birds, the squirrels or insects, gathered nuts or flowers, explored the many colored pieces of keel, or found a piece to write or draw with on a hard rock; each of us busy with whatever particular joy that suited our fancy.
Cutting into my thoughts, the timer was telling me to remove the cake from the oven, and in recollection, I heard the dinner bell that was mounted on a pole in the backyard. We were called to Grandma's table by the tolling of that bell on many occasions. It seemed the ten minute cooling time for the cake would never end, but I finally sat down with a glass of cold milk and a large square of unfrosted cake, with a piece of dried apple peeking at me from here and there. Once again, I was sitting in a warm friendly kitchen with my legs under a large table that was covered with a fresh white cloth and surrounded by highbacked wooden runged chairs that seemed to be forever beckoning. Before me was a dazzling display of cut glass jelly dishes - they were round, square, oval, single, divided, flat or stemmed, and each was holding a different kind of jelly, jam or preserves.
I bit into my dried apple spice cake and knew with the first bite that the missing ingredient was not the apples. The missing ingredient was GRANDMA.
Respectfully written by Evelyn Weed Teague. Rest in peace my dear aunt.
As for me.....I think Grandma and Grandpa will always be my missing ingredient in life. And as each generation leaves us, I realize more and more how much I still have to learn about my family; how important this family is to me; and how much I love them. I hope someday that I will be that same "important missing ingredient" in someone's life that my Bedelia family has been to me; I believe the missing ingredient is what makes us strong; it helps give us character; and it shows us how to love...unconditionally, passionately and ultimately.
Please bow your head as I say a prayer.
Dear Lord,
Please bless this family as we gather to remember, reminisce and rejoice in the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. Please let those who have passed before us know, that we love them with all our hearts but that we also know they are in a better place, with You. Guide us Lord, throughout this day and every day to follow. Bless this meal that we are about to share and bless the hearts of this big wonderful family.
Amen
Dear Lord,
Please bless this family as we gather to remember, reminisce and rejoice in the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. Please let those who have passed before us know, that we love them with all our hearts but that we also know they are in a better place, with You. Guide us Lord, throughout this day and every day to follow. Bless this meal that we are about to share and bless the hearts of this big wonderful family.
Amen
This was also my first ever prayer written by myself. Although you may not think it's much or "big deal," it's a pretty big deal to me. I have my own way I talk to God from me to him and it's not like this so knowing that I had to "talk to God" in front of a hundred others, it seemed like I was climbing a mountain. Again...I survived. I made it through and will go on to make another memory.
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