Trudy Edgington

It happens when my brothers and sisters come together. We tend to reminisce about our childhood. My nephew’s wedding in May on Sullivan’s Island gave us this chance to share and to catch up. It’s not easy. We’re scattered across the globe. So it requires a significant event to bring all seven of us together again at the same time.

But five siblings out of seven was not bad, considering the distance. Larry drove down from Tennessee with his son. Chris flew in from Cheyenne, Wyoming with her three daughters. Joy and Marie live in the Charleston area and me in Hanahan.

My twin, Judy, was unable to attend due to medical reasons. Steve lives in Saudi Arabia and the chances of him coming was slim. Mom and Dad have passed away. And on a special occasion as this, their presence is greatly missed. Meal time was significant and defined our childhood. It was a time to share and to be a family. It kept us involved in each other lives. Hearing Mom and Dad tell stories of the past have driven all seven of us to dedicate ourselves to passing on our heritage.

In our times together, our chosen spot is around the kitchen table. The same old stories are told over and over but no one seems to mind. We are transported back in time. Some of our best times were around the table.

Back then, when Mom and Dad were still with us, Mom loved it best with Dad at one end the table and she at the other end, and we grouped in our seats. They would give amused glances as certain topics were being discussed which Mom wrote down for all the relatives to read. There was never an end to the material she could write home about. She could weave a story that left you wanting more.

Mom was not an early riser. Reading late at night was her normal routine. So most mornings she would stand at the stove in a semiconscious state slowly making pancake after pancake.
On one particular morning Mom went through the ritual of heating the skillet, taking the mixture from the cabinet and stirring everything together. The aroma of pancakes filled the kitchen announcing breakfast is being served. Larry was the first to arrive at the scene.
With one bite it became evident that something was not quite right.

Larry, being an old man at age three, was trying to communicate in a matter of fact way. All he could say was "Yuck." Words were not necessary, and his face said it all. Watching Larry, no one wanted to risk the ordeal of being another victim.

Mom’s big black eyes showed that she was not happy with the complaints. Last one to the kitchen was Dad. He sat at his usual spot and proceeded to eat. All eyes were on Dad. Leaping from the table, he ran from the room mumbling something like, "Yoap." With all the confusion, Mom could not understand what he was saying.

Larry quickly answered, "He said, "Soap." Mom whirled around and there in the cabinet, beside the pancake mixture was the All Soap powder. Mom had grabbed the wrong box. The pancakes were the prettiest Mom had ever made and the last.

Life was simple and uncomplicated. But never dull. When my twin and I were born, Mom needed an extra pair of hands: Dad, Mother Edgington, and hired help, Mary. The two oldest, Larry and Joy, were spellbound by how two little ones could keep everyone jumping. We were on some expensive powdered milk and rest of the family were on baked beans. That Christmas Dad went to the woods for our Christmas tree. What little money left over was spent on gifts for us. Mom sent homemade cookies to relatives along with one of her "corny" poems.

Christmas found us penniless
But loaded with Good Wishes
"Heck," I said, "You folks won’t mind
I’ll send something that’s delicious."
So I baked these little cookies
Followed the receipt to the T.
If they taste like Hell
Don’t blame the mess on me.

Mom dreams of becoming a writer were never fulfilled. But that never stopped her from sharing her little masterpieces. Tucked away in the file cabinet are her poems and letters now.
They are little worn around the edges but our link to the past.

As always, that time in May found us sitting at the table, feeling Mom and Dad with us listening in on the stories as they did long ago. It all seemed real—It was.