A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet

by Sophie Hudson

  Papaw added a den to the back of the new-to-them house so there would be a nice big gathering place for the family, and when we had our first Sunday lunch there a month or so after they moved in, Mamaw stood at her new stove and carried out the ministry of the homemade chicken pie just like she’d always done. Paige and I missed the backyard of the old house and the pipe swing with the eight-foot chain that hung from the branches of an old oak tree, but there was a barn to explore and plenty of room to roam. That was all we needed.

  The following winter Mama and Chox hosted a tea at Mamaw and Papaw’s house to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Mama and Choxie’s brother, Bill, who lived three hours away, was there too, and in my opinion Bill’s presence always elevated a family gathering a couple of notches. He drove a sports car, reminded me of Burt Reynolds, and delivered one-liners better than anybody else I knew. If that weren’t enough, Mama and Chox let Paige and me serve the punch, and we were certain such a grown-up responsibility meant we’d hit the big time. Papaw wore his nicest suit, and Mamaw wore a pretty dress that she’d made for the occasion, along with a corsage that Sister had bought for her at a florist’s shop in Myrtlewood. They made an adorable couple.

  Papaw’s personality came alive in a big group of folks, so he was in his element that afternoon. Mamaw, on the other hand, was much more introverted and soft spoken. Every once in a while Papaw would put his hand on her back and whisper, “You doing okay, Lucy?”

  She’d grin and say, “I’m fine, John.”

  But even at eleven years old I knew it was hard for her to be the center of attention. Her sweet, servant spirit shone just fine without the aid of any limelight, and part of me wondered if she wasn’t going to sneak out of her own anniversary party so she could get in the kitchen and make everybody some chicken and dumplings. She hung in there with the socializing, though, and she stood by Papaw’s side until the front door closed and Mama and Chox practically raced to see who could be the first one to take off her high-heeled shoes.

  What none of us knew at the time, though, was how much Mamaw was struggling with her health. Then again, not even she knew how sick she was. Having been plagued by a general feeling of weakness as well as liver problems during the past several years, she initially thought that she was dealing with more of the same. Over the next few months, however, she and Papaw traveled to Myrtlewood almost weekly for doctor’s visits, and early that fall—about eight months after their fiftieth anniversary—Papaw told the family that the doctor had confirmed their worst fear: cancer. Other than helping Mamaw manage her pain and keeping her as comfortable as possible, there wasn’t much the doctors could do.

  Mamaw was admitted to the hospital in Myrtlewood right before Thanksgiving, and for the next two weeks Mama, Chox, and Papaw rarely left her side. Mama would pick up Paige and me from school—we were fourteen and twelve at that point—and we’d do our homework in the waiting room down the hall from Mamaw’s room while we drank Cokes and ate Dolly Madison fruit pies from the vending machine. Mama or Chox would take us downstairs to the hospital cafeteria for supper, and we’d eventually go home whenever they felt Mamaw was settled for the night. It broke their hearts to see her in pain, and they took their role as her advocates very seriously. It wasn’t quite like Shirley MacLaine at the nurses’ station in Terms of Endearment—Mama and Chox were far too polite to make a scene—but in their own Southern ways, they didn’t mess around.

  By mid-December the weather had turned windy and cold, and Mamaw showed no signs of getting better. One Tuesday night Papaw needed to drive back to Moss Rose to get a change of clothes and a few other things, and since Mama and Chox didn’t want him to stay at the house by himself, they suggested that he take Paige and me with him. We had school the next day, but they were far more worried about Papaw than about our missing an hour of social studies. So off we went.

  The ride to Moss Rose in Papaw’s Oldsmobile 88 was a quiet one, and by the time we arrived at Mamaw and Papaw’s house, we were all pretty worn out. It was the first time I’d walked through their back door without immediately seeing Mamaw standing at the stove, and while we didn’t stop and take time to vocalize our feelings or anything like that, I think it’s safe to say that we all felt her absence.

  Paige and I brushed our teeth in silence that night, standing in the guest bath that always smelled like a combination of rubbing alcohol and Mercurochrome. We walked down the hall to tell Papaw good-night and found him lying on top of the bedspread, staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest. Paige and I sat down beside him, not really knowing what to say. Papaw spoke up first and uttered six words that have stayed with me for more than thirty years.

  “She was mighty sweet, wasn’t she?”

  It struck me as strange that he used the past tense, but Paige and I certainly didn’t correct him. We tried our best to comfort him as his shoulders began to shake and the tears started to fall. And while I don’t have any idea what time it was when Paige and I finally fell asleep, I do know that Papaw’s quiet sobs were the last sound either of us heard.

  Early the next morning, around five o’clock, there was a knock on the door. Mama, Daddy, Chox, and Joe had come to tell us what Papaw’s heart had told him the night before.

  Up to that point in my life—and I was every bit of twelve years old—I’d been all about ballet lessons, my snazzy new Merlin game, American Top 40, and Nancy Drew mysteries. So for me, Mamaw’s death was my first glimpse into what family life looks like in the midst of sadness and grief and heartache. I couldn’t have put words to it at the time, I don’t think, but somehow I could sense that there was beauty in all that brokenness, that there were little patches of light that permeated the darkness. Yes, there was sorrow and pain—but there was also love and comfort and laughter and joy. There was a confidence that something bigger was at work, an assurance of “an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Corinthians 4:17, NIV).

  So while Mamaw’s death certainly isn’t my happiest memory, I can honestly say that it will forever be one that I treasure. Because that memory, by God’s grace, continues to teach me.

  And even now, more than three decades later, I hold that memory in my heart real tight.

  And I watch.

  And I listen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When the Biggest Portion of All Is the Love

  OVER THE LAST SEVERAL YEARS my hometown of Myrtlewood, Mississippi, has enjoyed a little bit of a building boom. A new mall at the edge of town spurred all sorts of development in the surrounding area, and what was once a commercial no-man’s-land is now a bustling shopping hub for four or five counties. Compared to when I was growing up, Myrtlewood has become very hip and with it and now. And also fancy.

  A sure sign that it was the dawn of a new retail day was the arrival of three popular chain restaurants: Olive Garden, Red Lobster, and Outback Steakhouse, which my mother-in-law, Martha, likes to refer to as “the Outbacks.” Martha, who’s every bit of five feet tall and wears a size next-to-nothing in her beloved three-quarter-sleeve jackets, enjoys the occasional trip to the Outbacks. She thinks their food is out of this world, but the portions throw her for a little bit of a loop. After all, she is a person who is absolutely stuffed after a lunch of half a ham sandwich and two Pringles, so it’s understandable that she feels a smidge overwhelmed by a plate of Alice Springs Chicken. Especially since it’s, you know, the size of her head.

  As a person who grew up in a family whose attitude about food was “If a little bit is good, then more is so much better,” I’ve always been somewhat mystified by Martha’s aversion to a big ole plate of, well, anything. However, when I was about twenty-eight, I realized that Martha’s disdain for large portions was the real dadgum deal. At the time, my husband and I were newlyweds, and Martha and her mother—an equally petite woman named Lelia, who was affectionately known as Sissie to her family and most of her friends—came for a visit. David and I were living in South Louisiana, and w
e were excited about having company for the weekend and eager to take them to a few of our favorite restaurants. Granted, Martha and Sissie each weighed every bit of a hundred pounds soaking wet and weren’t exactly known for putting away the food. (However, woe be unto you if you tried to get between Martha and a slice of really good wedding cake—she’d stab you between the knuckles with a dessert fork before she’d share even the tiniest bite.) Even so, we thought they’d enjoy a little bit of Cajun culinary flava.

  Because Martha and Sissie, as I’m sure you can imagine, were all about the flava.

  So that Saturday we took them to lunch at a restaurant close to our house. Once we were settled at our table and had talked our way through all the menu options, Martha and Sissie ordered some kind of chicken plate, David ordered a hamburger, and I ordered a big salad with fried chicken on it.

  (Because do you know what makes lettuce better?)

  (Listen, and I will tell you.)

  (FRIED MEAT.)

  (’Tis true.)

  Our food arrived not too long after we ordered, and as soon as Martha saw everyone’s plates, she couldn’t contain herself.

  “Sophie! My word! Have you ever seen such portions? I’ve never in my life seen such portions! I can’t imagine who could eat these portions! I mean, Sissie and I—well, we just don’t eat like this. I mean, sometimes we might split a hamburger from the Wendy’s or maybe order a snack pack from Kentucky Fried Chicken, but my word! These portions! I’ve just never seen such!”

  I wanted to take it all in stride. I really did. But the truth of the matter is that I was borderline offended. I understood where she was coming from, and Lord knows I had loved her and Sissie to pieces since I was a child in Myrtlewood and our families sat on neighboring pews during the 10:55 service at Mission Hill United Methodist Church. That being said, I still wasn’t in the mood to sit there and feel self-conscious about the size of my salad just because I happened to be eating lunch with two precious women who typically felt full and completely satisfied after they’d eaten a tablespoon of potato casserole and four English peas.

  And that’s why, a few seconds later, when Martha wrapped up her mealtime observations with one final chorus of “Who could possibly eat these portions?” I responded the only way I knew how. I grabbed my fork with renewed determination and cheerfully replied, “Your daughter-in-law can!” And then I stuffed approximately a fourth of my salad into my mouth on pure principle.

  Oh, I could do more than just eat those portions, mind you.

  I COULD EAT THEM WITH AUTHORITY.

  Given our experience at lunch that day—and, if I’m honest, at every restaurant we visited over the next ten years—I wasn’t really surprised by Martha’s reaction to the Outbacks once it made its debut in my hometown. It was so much food, just so much food! You’ve never seen such food! And even if Martha and her friend Rubena, who was her favorite buddy when it came to all things shopping and dining, went to the Outbacks and split something (even if they split something!), it was still just way more food than they could possibly eat. I mean, there was just no way they could eat those portions!

  HAVE YOU SEEN THOSE PORTIONS?

  Besides, if Martha had to pick a steakhouse that was going to be the subject of her undying devotion, there’s no question that the winner was situated about a quarter of a mile away, just up the road and on the other side of the highway.

  The Western Sizzlin.

  Truth be told, I can relate to Martha’s fondness for the Western Sizzlin. As a matter of fact, I have Sizzlin-related memories that go back to my childhood. When I was growing up, our family didn’t eat out very much, mainly because there weren’t a whole lot of places to go. Combine that with the fact that my daddy is perhaps the most frugal man alive (and when I say frugal, what I really mean is cheap, but I don’t mean that as an insult, and OH, BELIEVE ME, my daddy wouldn’t take it as one), and the end result was a family that ate out maybe two or three times a year.

  On those rare occasions when we did eat out, we’d always go to a steakhouse, and back then the two options were Bonanza and—you guessed it—Western Sizzlin. I usually voted for Bonanza because I liked to visit the salad bar and fill up my bowl with bacon bits, croutons, and Thousand Island dressing. Perhaps that’s where I first developed my sophisticated culinary taste—I’ll ponder that possibility the next time that I find myself dipping Ritz crackers into a jar of peanut butter and then washing them down with an ice-cold can of Diet Mountain Dew.

  Bonanza closed about twenty-five years ago, but Western Sizzlin is still alive and, well, sizzlin’. Martha is one of their most loyal diners, and I think the main reason for that is because the employees there have always been incredibly kind to her. For years Martha drove Rubena to the Western Sizzlin on Thursday nights, and they always ordered the same thing: the petite sirloin with a baked potato, and peach cobbler for dessert. According to Martha, if you don’t time it just right, the Western Sizzlin might not have enough peaches in their cobbler (she doesn’t mean to complain! she wouldn’t want to complain! and it’s still delicious!), but the portion sizes are absolutely perfect.

  That is some high praise, my friends.

  Martha and Rubena’s bond went far deeper than those weekly trips to Western Sizzlin, though. They had been childhood friends in Myrtlewood and forged a friendship that carried them through all the stages of their lives. They played dolls when they were little girls, navigated high school together as teenagers, and shared the journey of raising children and taking care of their families as adults. Since Martha grew up Methodist and Rubena grew up Baptist, they didn’t go to the same church, but they loved to visit the fifty-plus luncheons at each other’s churches whenever they could. Their devotion to one another has always been inspiring—to this day, I’ve never heard Martha say an unkind word about Rubena, and I strongly suspect that the reverse is also true.

  About fifteen years ago Rubena was diagnosed with macular degeneration, a disease that causes a gradual loss of peripheral vision, but Martha and Rubena both took the vision-related changes in stride. Martha would hold Rubena’s elbow as they walked through “the Dillards,” and whenever they’d split up to look at dresses (Martha had to look in the petites’ section! the petites’ section! otherwise she’d spend a small fortune in alterations trying to get the shoulder seams moved! so she shopped in the petites’ section!), Rubena would inevitably call for Martha to come read a price tag or a brand name or the fine print at the bottom of a coupon.

  They’d usually shop for an hour or so, then leave the Dillards with one or two new things each: a skirt for Rubena, a jacket for Martha, some cute clip-on earrings to match that blouse Martha had found in the Goody’s a few years ago—you know, the one she thought would be perfectly wonderful with her black slacks, only they didn’t have the blouse in her size? So she got the manager named Kevin to call another store and the other store had it in her size so the next time she was in Piney Bend with her friend Mary Ann they stopped and picked it up? Only now, do you know—DO YOU KNOW—that the Myrtlewood Goody’s is closed and she worries sometimes about the manager named Kevin? And how he’s doing and if his family is well? Not to mention the fact that you can hardly find those Alfred Dunner separates now that the Goody’s is closed, you really can’t! you just can’t! oh, no, you can’t!

  Sorry. Apparently I was overtaken by a Martha Moment.

  If you ever have the privilege of meeting Martha, you will find that you start to experience Martha Moments within thirty to forty-five seconds of the introduction.

  These Martha Moments, they are contagious.

  Over a period of several years Rubena’s eyes continued to get worse, but the girls’ shopping trips didn’t stop. “The girls,” by the way, is how Martha refers to her friends, who range in age from seventy to eighty-five. And let me tell you what: the girls are absolutely darlin’.

  There’s no telling how many miles Rubena and Martha walked in that mall over the years—with Martha hold
ing Rubena’s elbow all the while—and Martha always liked to recount their latest shopping finds whenever I was in town and would stop by her house for a visit. I never knew what to expect when Martha would launch into the tale of their latest adventure at the Tulip Creek Mall, but one of the most memorable was the long, involved saga of trying to find a housecoat for Rubena at Belk. Or, as Martha calls it, “the Belks.”

  The housecoat story was an epic tale involving crowded sale racks, charmingly uninformed clerks, and unattractive housecoat patterns. Martha relayed the details with such passion—and was so insistent about Rubena’s desperate need for a housecoat—that I started to feel like I must have missed a critical piece of information that would explain the urgency. So about fifteen minutes into the story, I stopped Martha to try to clarify.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I think I missed something. Why exactly were y’all looking for a housecoat for Rubena? Was she getting ready to go out of town? Or go to the hospital?”

  “No, nothing like that!” she exclaimed. “She just needed a new one! She needed a new one! Because, well, she still likes to cook her breakfast every morning, and she cooks breakfast in her housecoat, but, you know, she can’t see very well!”

  “Okay,” I replied, still feeling a little clueless.

  “Well, she gets in front of her stove and can’t really see what she’s doing and she has just scorched her housecoat sleeves to pieces! Just scorched ’em to pieces!”

  I sat perfectly still for a moment, unsure of how to respond, but after a few seconds I decided it never hurts to go with sincerity.

  “Well,” I responded, “I surely do hope y’all found one. Sounds like Rubena really needed that new housecoat.”

  “Oh, she did,” Martha answered. “And there was a darlin’ one on the sale rack. It was perfectly adorable. PERFECTLY ADORABLE. But I never could get a price for it. COULD NOT get a price. For all I know, it’s still there, still just hanging there, and you’d think that the Belks would like to sell it, wouldn’t you? I guess they just didn’t want to sell it! At least not to us!”