Who Needs Church?

I found this little poem, written by an acquaintance on a message board I frequent. I reprint here with her permission.


My Grandmother's Purse

a recipe, yellowed & ragged
written in a long-remembered hand
slips of papers, tossed into a junk drawer
notes pressed between rarely opened pages

an embroidered, neatly folded hankie in a dusty, shelved purse
a 1957 dollar bill tucked into a tattered wllet
left there by sentiment in my Grandmother's purse

a valentine from an 8 year old, now past 56
pictures of her at MY age with me...
looking older than her years

a loved one,long gone now, who was so much
the tangibles that remain.. faded pictures,aged paper, fabric
insignificant stuff lingers..saved because it's hers


This little poem brought some memories back for me. For instance, cleaning out my Grandma's and Mom's old purses, looking for old treasures. Back then, the treasures were those of a child: gum, candy, gritty loose change, lost in the black hole to be deposited in its depths and forgotten, sometimes on purpose, for me to find. Later on, after Grandma and Mom had passed on, the treasures most definitely changed: grocery lists penciled on torn envelopes and cigarette carton pieces, ragged recipes ripped from magazines, tattered address books, wrinkled handkerchiefs, have become the prizes now. Did they know how much of themselves they left behind in those discarded purses?

From that memory flowed a bunch of others. As a kid, I used to spend summers with my grandparents, out in the country. On Sundays Grandma and I would go to Sunday school and church. I didn't like it that much. I didn't fit in with the other kids in Sunday school, and, yes, even in church, they picked on me. I was always glad to get out of there and sit next to Grandma for the sermon. I must say, I can't remember any of those sermons. I didn't really listen to any of them.

I used to sit in the pew next to Grandma, tugging at my dress (I still hate dresses) and swinging my legs. I always swung them alternately, never swinging both in the same direction at the same time. Sometimes, she'd take a stick of Doublemint out of her purse and, tearing it in half, share it with me. She gave me half because it wasn't enough to have any real fun with; popping it or blowing bubbles was not an option. She would often end up dozing, and I wondered why she didn't just stay home instead. She'd drift a bit and her head would sink slowly down toward her chest. When it touched, she would sniff and wake up. The waking was just as graceful and surreptitious as the dozing off. Then she would notice that I was swinging my legs a little too hard. Without a word or a direct glance, she would lower her left hand and place it gently on my bare knee, my cue to stop. We'd go through this ritual every Sunday till I had to go back to the city and back to school.

When we got back from church, the aromatic sweet rolls Grandma had prepared and put out to rise were ready for the oven, and she would set about cooking up what amounted to a feast for the whole family, you know, the kind that fills you up just right to take that lazy Sunday afternoon nap. I remember fried chicken, roast beef, baked ham, vegetables fresh from the garden (my favorite was always purple hull peas), and freshly brewed iced tea, usually followed by one of her luscious cakes (coconut was a favorite).

Once everyone had had their fill, the women would put away the food and clean up while the men meandered out to the porch. Grandpa would settle into his red metal chair, next to the ashtray stand, and roll himself a Prince Albert cigarette. He would roll it lightly with his gnarled fingers, bring the cigarette up to his toothless mouth and dampen the edge of the paper with his tongue. I can still smell the sweetness of the tobacco as he opened the can. My uncle would stretch himself out on the old green porch swing, too full to sit upright. He'd share the swing if there were a lot of us around, but more often than not, by the time the women were done in the kitchen, he'd be stretched out and sleeping. Depending on my aunt's mood, she might wake him up and make him share the swing and be sociable. He always made a show of being put out, but he'd always comply. This, too, was a ritual.

Funny, how love disguises itself in the little rituals.