Thanks for the Memories
While driving across the state of Tennessee on my way to Arkansas last Wednesday, I stopped in my hometown of Jackson for a dinner break. When I arrived in the area with time to spare before I was supposed to rendezvous with my relatives for a meal, I realized I had time to indulge the strong tug of nostalgia.
During the nine years I lived in Jackson as a child, I resided in five different places: a men’s dormitory on the campus of Union University (my first home), my maternal grandparents’ home, and three other houses. I decided to drive by the places in town where my clearest childhood memories were formed: our Hollywood Drive home (where we lived the longest) and Granda and Daddy Bent’s house on Skyline Drive.
The house on Hollywood appeared much smaller than I recalled from my previous visit several years ago. How did six people live comfortably in that structure? As a child, the house felt spacious, not cramped. My sister, two brothers, and I had plenty of room to play inside and ample space to explore outside.
With gratitude for the memories formed in that place, I drove a mile to my grandparents’ former home. Heading up the hill toward the house, I almost failed to recognize it. This was not what I remembered. I circled the block and returned to get a better view.
The house I remembered was mostly brick, with siding in the area where a garage had been converted into a den. Underneath the front bedroom windows, azalea bushes bloomed brilliantly every spring. Two dogwood trees stood sentinel in the front yard – the perfect height for me to climb. Sprawling hydrangeas lined the eastern side of the house. Towering oaks loomed over the backyard.
Look at little me in front of Granda and Daddy Bent’s flower beds!
Pulling over to snap a few photos, I observed the differences between then and now. The bricks on the front of the house had been painted a dark grey. The den had been reconverted to a garage. No bushes or flowers were growing in front of the windows. One of the dogwoods was gone; the other was gnarled and leaning precariously.
The oaks were still visible over the roofline. How much had they grown since the last time I played in that backyard? Then I realized with a shock how small the backyard was – another trick of memory. We played many kickball games with our cousins in that yard. The bases must have been awfully close together.
Making a mental note of the “For Sale” sign in the front yard, I planned to look at the real estate listing online after I arrived at my destination. I wondered if the interior of this house had changed as dramatically as the exterior. Indeed, it had. The kitchen where I spent countless hours alphabetizing the spices on the two-tiered lazy Susan was no longer recognizable.
Throughout my childhood, that spice rack was situated on a peninsula separating the kitchen from the dining room. That laminate-covered peninsula was where I helped my grandfather assemble the ingredients for Granda’s cornbread dressing each Thanksgiving in a ceramic cabbage bowl, the same bowl I will use this week to prepare this legacy dish.
The dressing bowl
I recall requesting my late grandmother’s recipe from my grandfather after I reached adulthood. I quickly realized that making my grandmother’s cornbread dressing was going to be a trial-by-error endeavor for years to come. Granda’s recipe was vague at best. But I was confident I would eventually be able to master the dish, since Daddy Bent and I had spent so much time tasting the mixture before baking. (The annual responsibility for making the dish passed to us after my grandmother’s health declined.)
A well-worn recipe
The memories of crumbling and chopping, spooning and pouring, sprinkling and stirring in preparation for sampling remain fresh. “Do you think it needs more sage?” Daddy Bent would ask me. “What about more salt or pepper?” I loved being consulted, as if I were a chef. When we were both satisfied with the flavor, he would spread the mixture into a casserole dish (I don’t recall using two as the recipe instructs) and place it in the oven. Time to await the accolades.
This morning, I made the batch of biscuits and skillet of cornbread necessary for this year’s edition of Granda’s cornbread dressing. Tomorrow I will chop and spoon and pour and sprinkle, stirring together the other ingredients with the crumbled bread in the vintage cabbage bowl. The resulting dish will be devoured on Thanksgiving Day by folks who never knew my grandmother. But I remember her. And when I lift that first forkful of dressing to my lips, I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving for Granda and Daddy Bent, whose legacy endures in a casserole dish.
Granda and Daddy Bent
Bless this food we are about to receive.
Give bread to those who hunger,
and hunger for justice to us who have bread.
Amen.
(traditional American grace)
