“That is not the way it is supposed to be!”
My mother was the youngest daughter in a family of eleven children. Her brother is the youngest of her siblings, and still lives nearby. She was born, raised, and lived most of her life in the Iron Duff community of Haywood County. Together with my Dad, she raised my older sister, my younger brother, and I. Due to the results of polio (contracted at 8 years of age), Mom wore a metal brace (later replaced by fiberglass) and a shoe with a built-up heel on her right leg the rest of her life. While she was able to walk, her gait was always marked by a noticeable limp and was limited in distance. Not one to allow her physical limitations to hinder her, she worked many hard hours in the garden and in the “basement canning kitchen” of our house. Inasmuch as she was able, she provided for her family and offered steadfast support of my father as he served as a pastor of rural country Baptist churches. She died a few years ago as the result of “post-polio-related syndrome”, after several difficult years of physical decline.
Time spent talking with Mom was time well spent. She told me a lot about my heritage. Hopefully, for as long as I have my memory I will hear her voice and see her expressions as she tells me another tale, one worth keeping as an heirloom. A favorite of mine was about her childhood requests for chocolate candy from my grandfather. When, as a child, Granddad would give indications that he was heading to town (Waynesville) she (surrounded and supported by her siblings still living in the family home at the time) would always ask him to bring her/them some chocolate candy upon his return. Her favorite type of chocolate candy was “chocolate drops” (You do know what I am referring to, right? Chocolate covered with vanilla center, formed in the shape of a drop, about the size of the end of one’s thumb.). Granddad most often promised them that he would honor their request. Well anyway, he would arrive in town and would soon find his way to the “American Fruit Stand” (on Main Street) where he could enjoy a good, cold, refreshing (at least to him), can of beer back near the rear of the store. In order to not forget the request of his “youngin’s”, before sitting down to consume his beverage he would purchase a paper “poke” of chocolate drops. To keep from having to hold the poke of candy in his hands while in town, he would promptly deposit the poke in the rear pocket of his Red Camels (Bibbed Overalls- for those lacking on the knowledge of such things). Now, of course, the result of such a deposit meant he would spend several hours sitting before he returned home. Yes. You have jumped to the right conclusion. By the time he returned home and handed the poke of candy to my mother and the others, the chocolate drops had been smashed, melted, and fused into one big blob of delicious and thoroughly enjoyed chocolate. With laughter in her voice and a twinkle her eyes she would say, “Why, I was grown before I learned that chocolate drops didn’t come in the form of one big old lump from the store.” She said she told my Dad when she discovered individual, thumb-sized chocolate drops for the first time, “You mean, that is not the way it is supposed to be? Like Daddy brought them to us.”
Every day I am thankful for my memory. When I encounter folks with Alzheimer’s disease and related causes of dementia whose memory is being taken away from them, I am even more grateful. Hopefully, someday (SOON!) there will be a cure. But until then I will look these memory robbing villains (causes of dementia) in the face and say, “That’s not the way it is supposed to be!”