Aunt Agnes came to stay with us when Mamma went into the hospital to have some of her inner workings adjusted, as Daddy said. Aunt Agnes had spent most of her life in the Army where she earned many awards for her skills.She was an excellent markswoman. My Uncle Ernest still limps from the bullett stuck in his behind. It got stuck there when she found him in a compromising position with the neighbor lady. Aunt Agnes aimed and fired as he ran down the street and got him in one shot.
She could play the piano better than Elton John and Little Richard put together. She complained that she was slowing down even though she could still run the 50 yard dash in 7.5 seconds at close to 53 years old. Amazing indeed given her habit of chain smoking!
It was obvious to us early on however, that if they gave a medal for cooking, she would never win. A medal for eating her food maybe, but cooking? Not a chance.
As Mamma said, “Bless her heart but your Aunt Agnes, an apron, lard and fire are nothing to be messed with.” In fact, if we saw any combination of these items, Daddy told us we should run. Daddy's saying that Aunt Agnes had no idea what constituted edible victuals always drew a quick smile from Mamma.
Before Aunt Agnes arrived, Daddy made me and my sister thoroughly clean the house.
We scrubbed the floors until they shone; even the raggedy linoleum in the kitchen was buffed to perfection. We cleaned the pots and pans until we could see our harried reflections on their bottoms. We flipped a coin to see who would have to stick her hands into the toilet and I lost. We swept the front porch, weeded Mamma's precious flower beds and we washed the windows until they sparkled.
Daddy looked the house over and satisfied that we’d done a great job, gave us each a crisp five dollar bill for our efforts.
Then Aunt Agnes blew in through the front door with her various baskets, bags and suitcases one of which held her cleaning ingredients. The first thing out of her mouth was, “Stanley you done let my sister’s house go straight to Hell. Where are the girls? We gonna clean up this place.”
Out of one bag she pulled what Daddy called her damnable cauldron. From the depths of it she pulled jars, bottles, cans of potions and elixirs the combined smells of which made us woozy. And finally, from a straw basket lined in wax paper she grabbed a clump of chicken feet and potatoes each one with with more eyes that a common house fly.
“Girls, get your mother's lard out. I’m gonna’ fry us up a mess of these chicken feet and taters while we clean this house. Proper like.” She added that last bit just to antagonize Daddy who by now was hiding behind his newspaper and cramming his last supper of three hot dogs into his mouth.
And so the torture began. And running was out of the question.
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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin
Photo by Preben Hansen
