Introducing.............Momma

Jamie loves his biscuits! Me, not so much, I like one while it's hot, that's about it. I had an appointment with my hairdresser this morning, and felt like making a quick pan for lunch, served with a leftovers cold plate.

For just the two of us, I make a half batch, and I love my tried and true recipe using buttermilk, a nod to Jamie's Aunt Margaret, the best biscuit maker north of the Mississippi!

But I started using my trusty cast iron pan a lot more, from one pan-meals to pizza and to biscuits, and I'm pleased every time. It's something my grandmother would have done. And I sure am thankful for all the times I learned a new trick from her.

So while he's mopping up a second (or third) biscuit with some jam, I'll start my Blog.

Momma died in 1986, so I would guess her to be around 60 here, in her favorite rocking chair in front of the woodstove. Note the hobbit sized door behind her. It wasn't because the little old house was built by and for Acadians, it was actually a door to the dirt cellar, fitted in under the stairway. There was a typical big calendar on the wall next to a holy picture complete with palms. And always, a radio on a shelf on the wall, plugged in for news. I remember her shushing us once, while she turned it up to listen to the report of Stephen Burke and his son Gerard's terrible accident. Always had a housedress on, with a deep-pocketed sweater, and I would expect she either just took off her ever-present apron, or was just about to put it on. There aren't too many pictures of her where she isn't smoking.

We all have a set of two biological parents, and four biological grandparents. That's the rules.

But rules are made to be broken, right? Well, mine were smashed all to hell. My brothers and I were shafted. Our father died so young that Butch and I have few to no memories, and he died before Darrell was even born, so there's that. Then our mother disappeared, so we didn't even get the chance to have a step-father, if she'd been so inclined. Therefore, we had absolutely zero chance of grandparents on our mother's side. My mother was born to a single mother, then reared by her grandmother, so the water gets pretty muddy there.

That leaves a set of grandparents on my father's side. His father Henry, my grandfather died of dementia at the age of 70, I was barely 4 years old, so no memories of a loving grandfather there, and that leaves one grandparent out of the four.

Momma.

She was widowed at 52, she was 18 years younger than my grandfather. Nothing unusual about that. She was 17 when she married Henry, and he was 35. That would hardly be allowed today. My father was born the next year.

I always considered myself to have one parent, and that was Momma. But because she had taken on the roles of both parent and grandparent, she was actually neither.

I wish I'd known her in her youth. Genetics plays a large part, a very large part, in who we become, we can't run away from that. But our environment plays a vital role too, and since I only knew her in the latter part of her life, I can only go by that. I think there were many topics that were avoided, roads you didn't go down. One of my favorite sayings, and I truly believe it, is that: people only tell you what they want you to know.

Here's Momma, hanging out the wash, a common occurrence, one I still enjoy. Plus, I actually even still iron things, I find it a very calming activity, very productive. repetitive and soothing.

Here, I see two things.

It looks like a set of men's thermal underwear she's hanging up, so that would tell me that Henry is still alive at this time. Also her hair is dark, so she is a little younger.

And, her dress is a paisley print, still one of my favorite things, a good paisley cotton. Is it homemade? Did she buy it at Sally's in Souris? Does this picture predate that?

I love that her laundry is piled in an old bushel apple basket, and the pole on the ground behind her is likely to be used to lift the line up in the air to catch a good breeze, which in Lower Rollo Bay is hard to miss. There is no doubt that she spent the morning in the little back bathroom, where she could hook up the wringer washer hose to the sink, then drain it out the window. Many times I watched her, with many warnings to stay clear. It was hard work, but I don't remember her complaining too many times. I remember clearly how hot it was in the bathroom and the air seemed so wet. Well of course it was, there was hot soapy water everywhere. And in those days, who had a lot of clothes?

Momma was a force to be reckoned with. She loved fiercely. But she had a wicked temper and a terribly sharp tongue.

She was like a summer day. The sky could be that particular shade of blue that is soft and gentle and warm. A wonderful day to be out and enjoying the sweet fresh air.

But....what about that patch of purple cloud on the horizon, bruising the sky? A sign of a storm? Well, head for the hills, because if Lizzie loses her temper, someone is going to suffer her wrath.

Momma (Lizzie) was many things. Her parents were Joseph Heartz and Mary Ann (Doucette, I think). Of all things she was the youngest of fourteen children and her father died when she was only two, leaving her mother with a terrifying future, if there was a future at all for her. That would have been around 1908 and in those days women didn't have jobs. They had long days of work that never ended, but not jobs. The oldest of her kids would have been in their late teens perhaps or very early 20's, but still a lot of mouths to feed. So like many widows, she remarried quickly. Her second husband was named Frank Grimes, and he was never spoken about. If I were to read between the lines, I would find a character of ill repute, I'm sure. There is almost no question of a situation ripe for abuse, and I don't think Momma's mother had it easy, but her children had to eat. I think they both lived to an old age.

One memory of her childhood that stood out vividly for Momma was the death of one of her sisters, I think she was affected deeply. She told me the whole story, and of course I was full of attention for once.

And then, right away while the story was fresh in my mind, I wrote a poem about it. I was all of fourteen years old, in High School, and funnily enough, my cousin Harold, for whatever reason, remembered that piece of minutiae. I shared it then with Adele Townshend, and I share it again now. And please don't judge me too harshly, it sounds rather childish and simplified. But I plead the 5th Amendment.

Momma was very proud of it, and it tells the true story of her sister's death, and many other children like her.

This is the original copy as you can plainly see, typed laboriously on an old manual typewriter, signed "N.C. Nova Chaisson.