When I was a small girl, Gramma worked at Richland Memorial Hospital, in the canteen. She was the manager. Everyday after school, I would be dropped off at the hospital by my ride. I would meet Gramma there, and wait until her shift was over. The canteen was only open until about 4. After I finished my snack and whatever homework I had, which was usually none, I became bored and started asking my Gramma for something to do. She would usually come up with some little chore for me to do and then give me some little bit of money to do it. I did everything from pull the dead, wilted leaves off of heads of lettuce to restock the chocolate and strawberry shortcake parfaits in the mounted, back-lit refrigerated unit.
After I got my money, I would go next door to the gift shop. I never could hold on to my money. Ms. “Mac” ran the gift shop. Actually, The Pink Ladies ran the gift shop. They were the hospital volunteer ladies. They still wear pink smocks. To me, however, it was Ms. Mac’s shop. She would greet me, happy to see me. “Hey Kimmy! What are we buying today?” she would ask.
I would smile and reply, “Hi, Ms. Mac! I am going to get some candy and maybe somethinng for Grammer.” I would walk over and collect my grape flavored Pop Rocks and a Sugar Daddy. Then I would meticulously look at everything on every shelf. There were never any really big crowds in the small store that sold the basic hospital gift shop items: flowers, magazines, baby items, books, so Ms. Mac usually walked around with me, asking about school, my day, etc. I was always spending my “hard-earned” money in there on something for Gramma, but it had to be just the right thing. Nothing ordinary would do for MY gramma.
On one particular day, after several minutes of scouring the shelves, seeing things I had seen a million other times, my eyes spotted something new: wooden spoons. Finding these, to six year old me, was like hitting the proverbial jackpot! MY gramma always used wooden spoons with which to cook. They were a quarter each! I carefully chose the four I wanted to get for her. I took my items up to the register. Ms. Mac said, “So, have you found what you were looking for?”
“Yes, ma’am! Grammer likes to cook, so she’ll love these!” It never occurred to me to wonder why a hospital gift shop was selling wooden spoons. Now, in hindsight, I would say it was devine intervention. Ms. Mac carefully placed my valuable items in a plain, pink paper bag. I marched triumphantly back to the canteen, ready to eat my Pop Rocks and hand over the spoons to my gramma.
“I see you got some of those God-awful Pop Rocks. Well, you know you can’t have any Coke with those,” she said in her matter-of-fact-I-mean-business-gramma voice.
“Yes, ma’am. I know. I got you something!” I exclaimed.
“Oh good! Do I get it now, or do I have to wait until we get home?” she asked.
I said, “I guess you can have it now.” I opened the bag, took my Sugar Daddy out for later and handed the now-rumpled pink paper bag over. She opened it and slid out the slick, clean wooden spoons.
“They are just the kind I like, Kimmy! Perfect,” she proclaimed.
At the end of her shift, we gathered up all of our stuff and started the walk home. We only lived two blocks from the hospital, and this was always a favorite part of my day. When we got home she said, “Let’s wash these up and then I can make us some pancakes for dinner! If you’re not too full of Pop Rocks,” she smiled knowingly. She knew that Breakfast for Dinner was one of my favorite things. She made the pancakes for us and declared that they tasted better having been made with the new spoons. I just sat there grinning, sticky with Ms. Butterworth’s.
Over the years, Gramma used those spoons all the time, making one love-filled meal after the next for the people most important to her, her family. She provided us with pancakes, cakes, biscuits, stews, soups, Kool-Aid. Even now, 32 years later, we still have a couple of those spoons left. She always cooked with those spoons, and whenever I see them, the evoke memories of my gramma cooking for us. Now it’s my turn to cook meals full of love for the people I care most about, and I’ll use those spoons to do it.
Incoherent Ramblings 