The Best of Times…With No In-between Times

Charles Dickens’ _{A Tale of Two Cities} begins with these infamous lines…”It was the best of times. It was the worst of times…” One hundred sixty-three years since its publication, we are living in the 3rd year of a global pandemic, “with no in-between times.” in sight. Yet, our family found time for celebration. On October 17, 2021, my grandmother turned 100 years old. For a brief moment, in the midst of global chaos, we found joy. No, rather, “joy” found us. Grandma Ruth, is the center of that joy. She is the calm in the midst of a storm and no matter the season we all find ourselves in, we celebrate her. We celebrate, and we remember for there are “no in-between times. There simply, “is.”

Her birthday colors were rose pink, black and gold. We’d planned an outside car parade complete with balloons, party hats, a Saturday birthday luncheon at a seafood restaurant on the river in Daytona Beach, followed by a birthday dinner, and culminating with celebration cake aptly suited for the occasion. The cake was a yellow layered cake with luscious milk chocolate buttercream that tasted sublime. It was studded with toasted Georgia pecans and adorned with white chocolate dipped strawberries and fondant white sprinkles.

Her birthday cake was an homage to Grandma’s Chocolate cakes throughout the years. Every year we looked forward to one of her huge 3 layer yellow cakes with chocolate icing strewn with pecan halves all over it. Never mind the fact that her cakes were traditionally, a Duncan Hines box cake (canned icing and all). Her cakes were always richly made with butter despite being boxed cakes. Those cakes literally melted in your mouth. She always noted, ” Well, it’s just a box cake ’cause you know, Grandma, ain’t no good at making homemade cakes.” In her mind, it was her downfall–to us, that cake was nirvana. It was what made every celebration complete whether it was Easter, Anniversary, Wedding, or a birthday but especially, Christmas. It sat inside a vintage cake dome on the center of the dining room table along side a huge silver tray of every fruit imaginable. Encircled by every kind of shelled nut, Brazil, walnut, pecans, hazelnuts. Next to a pan of pecan brownies and stacked boxes of Krispy Kreme Donuts. Despite all that–the chocolate iced, yellow cake and pecans, always took center stage at her house during the holidays.

Everyone fondly remembers those cakes. Grandma would always add: “there’s Neopolitan ice cream in the freezer.” We all knew the tradition. Her birthday would be a reminder of those days. Except today was different. Today, this chocolate cake had a unique feature which read: “Happy 100th Birthday!” This cake was a rich homemade, buttery, confection (nothing boxed here). The chocolate buttercream was oozing with pure chocolate goodness. It tasted like the richest candy bar studded with chunks of the sweetest, Georgia pecans. Despite being a hot in-climate day (it’s mid October), the icing grew increasingly warm and soft in this summer-like weather.

We all delighted in this pinnacle event and in Grandma’s physical presence. She’d made it to be 100 years old.100 years old. I held my breath that she would make it to this day for she (like her cake) is only slightly like her “familiar self.” Now, she’s bolder, more humorous, yet, more outspoken than ever before. She maintains a high degree of etiquette but, will “speak her mind” (as we say in the South) when necessary. After dinner she asked: “so is there any dessert?” When told her there would be dessert for her birthday she politely responded with a thoughtful, “ohhh, because dinner should always end with a dessert” she hinted. And later, she said to me, ” now, may I have another piece of cake and another scoop of ice cream?” I then reminded her, that she’d already had 2 scoops of ice cream to which she responded, “well, can I have another?” I smiled, and gave her another “child’s portion” of delicious strawberry and cream ice cream and another small sliver of cake ( because Grandma’s had a history of diabetes which has subsided in her older years).

The most humorous memory was the picture my sister, Carla, tried to stage of Grandma Ruth “helping me cut the cake.” My sister instructed Grandma to place her hand next to mine on the serving knife while simultaneously, looking towards the camera (and away from the cake). Grandma responded, “okay, hold the knife, and smile, right?” Carla, responded, “yes, now look at me, Grandma.” She repeated, “Grandma look at me.” Carla, meant for her to look towards the camera (in the opposite direction of the cake) which was totally illogical to Grandma. After 2 or 3 failed tries, we attempted a 1-2-3 count down-still failing. None of this made sense to Grandma Ruth. Why hold the knife and look away from the cake? She rationalized, “shouldn’t I be looking here?” she asked. Frowning, Grandma, persisted, “but, the cake is over here” she pointed towards the cake and away from the camera, growing irritated with all of us. We all responded, “nooooo, just hold the knife, pretend to cut the cake and smile towards the camera!” She let out a huge sigh, and responded, “okay, hold the knife, look at Carla and smile, right?” Again, we gave her a 1-2-3 countdown. On “3” she was to smile at the camera. Finally, in resignation, she turned towards the camera, gritted her teeth into a phony smile ( as if to say, “arggggg!”) and Carla snapped the photo. That photo ended up being the one the mayor of Daytona Beach posted on his official page honoring Grandma. It was the most hilarious picture as I’m caught looking crossed-eyed (about the explode in laughter at the ridiculousness of the entire scene). As Carla snapped the photo, we all (except Grandma who was “over it” and all of us) roared with laughter! It is a scene I’ll never forget because despite her dementia, Grandma was using reasoning at how illogical it was to have her to pretend to cut the cake yet, look away from it.

Memories are like rain, they come down like a sweltering, summer shower. But, sometimes they pour down like a heavy storm. At times, you get swept up in their essence. At times, you never understand how precious they are at the time they’re gone You can never “unlive” them. You can never re-live them. You can never retract them. However, you can conveniently or inconveniently, forget them like a word that’s forgotten but, resides on the tip of our tongue.. The fault is in ourselves…not the day or the hour. There are no in-between times. Like the Africans believe about “the state of being”, and the verb, “to be” you either, are or you are not present. Will be, was or would have been is non-sensical to a “state of being.” And so, Grandma’s 100th birthday is for us “the best of times.”

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Dr. Cheryl D. Sorrells–All rights reserved. No parts of this blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Cheryl D. Sorrells. Inquiries should be addressed to Cheryl D. Sorrells @ cheryl.bakes@yahoo.com

In Search of Deliberateness

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”-HENRY DAVID THOREAU

These words by Thoreau are transcendent. In 2019, I’d reached the point where I couldn’t take it anymore and retired. The continual stresses of life had become insurmountable. And so, I left education but, the profundity of Thoreau and Emerson’s teachings never left me and hopefully, never left my students. So, today, I find myself on the other side of that simple life having gone through its ups and downs. We all have a story. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without the experiences which are unique to me. I am now figuratively walking in the “woods” that Thoreau talked about that I once lectured to my students about but, knew I really wasn’t living. Every time I taught it I knew I was methodically, doing what I had to do rather than what I wanted to do. There are parts of life that despite how passionately you live it can become mundane. Now, before I go on you may be thinking, I thought this was a food memory blog, so, where’s the connection? I’ll connect it all–no worries.

I was always determined to teach Emerson and Thoreau each year despite its challenges. It was a sub-unit in Romanticism, known as Transcendentalism. It is however, difficult to teach 11th graders, since they still can be immature at 16 year old. Remember age 16? I do. My 16 year old birthday party was infamous! My best friend, Shelley and I had planned every last detail. Everyone from both high schools was there! I grew up in the 70’s. It was the age of “house” parties. People were packed in my grandmother’s living room, spilling out the front door all the way down the long sidewalk of the apartments while the music from Kool and the Gang; Bootsy Collins, and The Ohio Players blasted into the streets. The night of my party our biggest challenge was how long we could turn down the lights before Mama and Grandma found out while someone quickly changed the music from disco to a slow dance R&B song. Guys instinctively grabbed their favorite girl to get in a rhythmic hard grind or two before the lights were turned back on by the watchful eyes of my mother and grandmother.

When on summer vacation in Tennessee we went to our weekly Sunday night hangout at the local skating rink with its black lights, disco ball and a DJ on the mic. The crowds of cars surrounded the building. Our Dad would drop us off and sternly say: “Be outside by 11 p.m. or else! You got that, Billy?!” My brother was never on time. I think he lived to defy curfew orders. In the 70’s we were still trying to hang on to the hippie generation of the 60’s. My favorite outfit was a pair of wide leg hip hugger bell bottom jeans, mid-drift tube top accessorized by a pucca shelled necklace and a mood ring on your index finger. I loved my wide leg jeans so much that Daddy discussed throwing them away–something I wasn’t going to tolerate without a good verbal argument on my freedom to wear what I wanted! My jeans and my afro were the bane of my father’s existence during this time. Both were my silent rebellion against authority. In fact, I don’t know which Daddy hated more, the afro or the jeans. Eventually, my jeans mysteriously disappeared one day. I always thought either my brother or Daddy threw them in the trash. I never saw them again! If I broached the subject Daddy and Bill would look at each other, shrug their shoulders, mutter something and drop the subject. They took that secret with them to the grave!

As teens we watched “Laugh In,” Good Times, Sanford and Sons and “Bewitched” on television. Then there were variety shows like Carol
Burnett and Flip Wilson with his memorable character, “Geraldine” instigating antics and ending her skit with: “You betta watch out now, sucker! and “The devil made me do it!” My father always ended each day with a nightly dose of “The Late Show” starring Johnny Carson’s monologue.

We grew up in an age of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and canned English peas. Sunday dinners were turkey wings or baked chicken, collard greens, dressing and gravy. On weekends my best friend, Jane and I would walk to the local Dairy Queen in Daytona Beach, and devour a strawberry shake, a chili dog and fries while laughing about boys (who liked who) etc. When I’d come home from school Grandma Ruth would surprise me with a peach cobbler, or bread pudding for dessert, homemade biscuits baking in the oven, while fried chicken was frying in a black cast iron skillet on the stove. Life was simple. It was as good as it gets because what could be better than one of my grandma’s hot biscuits with a side of strawberry jam and butter? Whether I was in Florida or Tennessee, life centered around food.

However, food was more than sustenance. Baking and cooking have taught me patience. I still hate the lessons patience has to teach–and I’m still learning. For example, what does it really mean to live deliberately? Well, with intention–contemplatively, yet, intentionally. It’s a difficult thing to do. For it requires scrutiny and the right balance. Think about it, but, not too long, or it’ll lead to procrastination. That’s what happened to Thoreau in “Walden.” He went to the woods to think about his path in life. Ironically, he found that when he went to the woods he recreated that same “path” he’d been on.

As for me and my teaching career, I’d “mastered” my subjects. Whether it was in the field of law or literature. Whether at the post graduate level or secondary education. I had done what I had to do to survive it all. I felt I just couldn’t teach anymore–not another research paper, not another essay, not another unmotivated child. Educating and inspiring someone else’s child is (to say the least)– exhausting. You can’t do it without sacrificing a bit of yourself each time. And if it consumes you–if it takes your sleep or whatever, I found that you will either be left on the teaching battlefield for dead, eventually, or you’ll throw in the towel and walk away. I chose the later.

I recognize that at the end of the day education is a business. A service you give and others will take and take and take with only a scattering of rewards–if any–often without even a thank you in return. The better you are at doing the job–the more the people will take. I realized that in the end if I dropped dead from exhaustion the next day a substitute teacher would be in my place for however long, and well, “the beat [would] go on” (to paraphrase Sonny and Cher’s song). It was up to me to save myself from the consequences Thoreau warned about. So, for the first time in a long time I made myself a priority –no goodbyes, or retirement cake necessary.

I’d had this lesson in life shown to me by my own father. He gave his all to coaching and teaching children. He never got a summer vacation and lived meagerly off of a teacher’s salary. Bologna and pottage meat sandwiches were our summer’s diet along with left over lunches from the free lunch summer school recreation program Dad supervised. My dad ended up with heart blockages, heart surgeries and eventually died from a poor man’s diet. He was another stressed out teacher and I saw his path inevitably, as my own. So, while walking away is difficult — sometimes it’s necessary. When I could leave responsibly, I left to go find the person I’d left behind. I just didn’t want to become the person Thoreau talked about–to find out at the end of life, I had not lived.

The end will come to all of us whether or not we’re ready. The end may take us by surprise or with knowledge of our impending conclusion. While on this journey called life I have to be careful not to walk in someone else’s path or recreate the path that I just left. Subconsciously, that too, can happen–easily, because it’s habitual. But, remembering what really, truly are essentials–well, that’s the challenge. Society still tugs at you. Family tugs at you too, to live the way they want you to live. But, that’s what I’d always done for so long. It can leave you flailing, this way or that way, in the wind. And still–you’ll never be the darling of their eye so, you might as well, chuck it and live the life you want to live. When you find it–you’ll know. Just don’t give too much of yourself because it’ll never be enough. I know now, that people can be selfish and will take as much of you as you’re willing to give–they’ll do it politely, incrementally, discretely, circuitously, craftily, but nevertheless, intently. Know for yourself what’s essential and not what someone else thinks is essential. Make sure that the path you’re on is the path for you because walking in someone else’s path is impossible unless you share the same purpose (which you don’t). Finally, since retiring (I say with a sigh) I have the time to reflect. I can take the time to put my finger in the wind, in search of deliberateness.

COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Cheryl D. Sorrells–All rights reserved. No parts of this blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Cheryl D. Sorrells. Inquiries should be addressed to Cheryl D. Sorrells @ cheryl.bakes@yahoo.com

Smothered turkey wings, mashed potatoes and gravy with English peas–a typical Southern soul food Sunday meal.