On pretty days, I would walk down to her house to see her. She baked little sugar cookies with Hershey Kisses, she made the (then) popular cabbage soup and ground up ham for ham salad. I loved it.
She had a huge craft room with all of her knitting needles, reams and reams of yarn. Her shelves held her ceramic collection, things she had made for herself and others. The door was kept shut throughout the day … the room seemed sacred that way. When I entered, it felt like I was going into a secret place. I loved to look at the long, aluminum knitting needles.
Friday nights were “Happy Hour” night. She had popcorn and honey roasted peanuts. Little sausages swam in barbecue sauce and the adults drank Gimlets or Greyhounds. They laughed in the kitchen about their days and their family and of course, their grandchildren. I wanted to be old enough to get their jokes but I wasn’t.
They drove to distant, sunny places in their motorhome, my grandfather and Pollyanna. They would visit frequently their children and grandchildren; happy hour “on the go” I would think. When Grandpa got sick, she spent her time at the nursing home. Through the disabling Shy Draeger’s Syndrome, she would read his mind, “I wish I could take you away from all this.” She was his Honey.
We live apart now, she in Tennessee, me in Georgia. I wish to go to her house on a whim the way I did when I was younger. It’s harder now, now that I have her great-grandchildren toodling at my feet...at arm’s reach for all of her breakable ceramics and crafts. They need to hear her laugh the way I did. She is Honey to so many more now; grandchildren and great-grandchildren and to my boys. The days just fall through your fingers without really knowing it. You scramble with your own kids, taking care of the now...but missing so much, the yesterdays. The yesterdays in Pollyanna’s kitchen, eating soup, talking about school and visiting the sacred craft room.
~ Just this Mom