I’m rocking hard in Grandpa’s rocker as I watch the kitchen clock. The minutes sweep past the hour hand. It’s ten-thirty and I’ve waited for over an hour. My Great Grandma Prudie promised we’d pull taffy today, but today seems half over. Prudie always keeps her promises unless she’s feeling poorly. Yesterday Prudie was in a grand mood, so I suppose she’s fine this morning.
Last night Prudie started talking candy-making. We’d watched The Lawrence Welk Show: Prudie, Grandma, Grandpa, Dad and me. Even Mom watched the program, ‘though she watched it from her hospital bed and not with us. After the show, Prudie looked at me with a pixie grin hidden in her wrinkly face, her eyes all squinty with glee.
“Bo, let’s go in the kitchen and check out the pantry. Maybe we’ll do some cooking tomorrow.” I’m always game when Prudie wants to cook. She doesn’t mess in the kitchen much anymore, unless she’s got a hankerin’ in her sweet tooth. And my sweet tooth is as sweet as hers. Prudie doesn’t like to cook by herself, but she likes to cook with me.
In case you don’t know, I’d better explain about my wacky family. Prudie is my Grandma Pearl’s mom. Remember? She lives in our apartment with Grandpa and Grandma (who is my Mom’s mom) and my parents and me. (Yes, indeedy. I live in a five adult/one child family!) Five people always telling me what I should do. Boy oh boy.
Now, Prudie is nearly eighty five years old, and she’s brim full of stories about her long life. Mom and Grandma usually forbid me to listen to most of her tales, but Prudie thinks children should be raised differently than do my other adult relatives. She believes in letting children know about real life, even when real life isn’t a princess story. When Mom and Grandma aren’t around, Prudie always thinks of a new story to tell me.
Last week she told me about all her marrying which has been a family secret for years. When Prudie was only eighteen, she married a railroad man named Frank. I can’t imagine marrying anyone when you’re 18, but Prudie said it was common enough back then. After all, it was 1900. My Grandma Pearl was born a year later. Then one autumn day, when Pearl was a week shy of her first birthday, Prudie packed Frank’s overnight bag. He had been assigned to the St. Louis, Missouri to Denver, Colorado train route. Frank worked shoveling coal to keep the train’s steam engines running. Frank said he’d be gone a fortnight and Pearl cried something fierce when her Papa got on the train. She loved her Papa.
Prudie told me the whole story one summer’s night when she was in the mood to talk. “Shoveling coal is a dirty job and plain hard work. Frank hated it and kept threatening to quit. I suppose he hated more than just his wretched job, though. You see, Frank never came home from his trip. Just sent me a postcard from St. Louis saying he had some affairs to take care of and wouldn’t be coming home again. None of us ever heard from Frank again. Him leavin’ didn’t bother me too much, but I did feel badly for Pearl having no father. She called for her papa for months.”
No one knows Prudie tells me all her family. Grandma would claim Prudie was putting strange ideas in a my head and maybe Grandma is right about that. Hearing about people who divorced in 1903 seems a mighty strange notion to me. Divorce wasn’t done much back then.
After Frank didn’t return, Prudie and Pearl moved in with family while my great grandma took a nurse’s course by mail. Can you imagine! She learned to be a nurse and she never once went to nursing school. Instead she memorized two medical books. She still keeps them in her bedside table. Occasionally Prudie lets me take a look at the pages. She used to cover up the drawings of the man’s anatomy until I accidently saw them. She doesn’t bother any longer. “A child’s curiosity is a good thing,” she says to me. “Children should be exposed to ideas, even ideas that seem strange. Life is strange.”
“I practiced nursing until Pearl turned eighteen and got married to your Grandpa Smulling. As soon as Pearl and Smulling were settled, I married Charles. In no time at all we moved to Chicago and we lived there nearly thirty years. Then something unusual happened ‘tween Charles and me. I started missing my family something fierce so I moved back home and I’ve lived in this apartment ever since.”
But the real kicker? Prudie told me that she and Charles are still married. Prudie does marrying different than anyone else I know. “I prefer to live my life as peacefully as I can,” says Prudie. “Why should I be miserable for no reason? I choose to live with my daughter and her family, and Charles prefers living near his sons. Our situation suits us fine.”
I could barely believe they were still married. “Do you love Charles, Prudie? Do you miss him?”
“Well, Bo. It’s like this. We think fondly of each other, but we’d prefer not to live in the same house. I think we became bored with each other. Not to say marriage isn’t a good thing. It is, but it’s not for everyone.”
Wow! If Mom found out that I knew about Prudie’s marrying habits, I’d get tanned for sure. I never did tell anyone Prudie’s secrets. Not even my favorite cousins nor my best friend.
I figure that Prudie and Charles miss each other some of the time. Prudie writes to Charles every Sunday afternoon and she covers her writing whenever I walk by. And she gets a letter from him every Wednesday. Sometimes she gets little packages when it’s near her birthday or Christmas. Prudie always lets me open them. Inside there’s always a little Bible wrapped in white tissue paper and Charles always signs the bookplate “to Prudence from Charles (your husband.)” Prudie has a stack of Bibles from Charles in her bookcase, but the only Bible I see her study is her Confirmation Bible.
I turn all this over in my mind as I wait for Prudie to get out of bed. Prudie makes my mornings awfully long ’cause I’m always waiting for her. She usually doesn’t get out of bed until near eleven and then she does her primping. She always brushes her hair and crimps it with her hair iron before she leaves her room. Prudie’s hair goes long past her waist and she takes her time, so she always looks beautiful when she comes to the breakfast table. And she always wears a flower print dress, belted at the waist. Nothing sloppy ’bout my great-grandma.
Just one more thing about Prudie before we make taffy. She pretty much does what she wants, and she being so old, everyone goes along. Grandma Pearl says it’s her mother’s due after all the grief she’s suffered and Grandpa shakes his head at Prudie’s shenanigans, but they seldom complain about her.
I hear Prudie’s tap-tap cane in the upstairs hallway. “Yoo-hoo. Bo, you ready?” Prudie flicks on the stairway light and hobbles down the stairs. It’s 11:30 by now, and Grandma is nearly finished making the noon meal. Today we’re having chicken and dumplings and stewed rhubarb, one of my favorites. As much as I love Prudie, I hate eating with her. Prudie makes eating weird for the whole family. Remember, she does things her own way. She does that about eatin’ too. Prudie eats her breakfast while everyone else eats dinner. Today, because Prudie is feeling good, she chooses not to wait for Grandma to fix her bacon and eggs. Prudie tries to do it herself. When she starts fooling with the stove, we all get a little peevish. We try to talk politely and chew with our mouths closed while Prudie drops eggs on the floor and bangs the pans. When she’s finally ready to eat her breakfast, everyone else is done with dinner and yet we all have to wait for her finish before we eat dessert.
We all sit at the table while Prudie eats her breakfast. “Out of respect,” Grandpa says. “It’s the right thing to do.” Prudie believes in chewing each mouthful of food a hundred times, so she’s awfully slow. “Oh, Pearl,” she finally says, surveying her plate. “Wrap up some of that chicken and I’ll eat it for my supper. And put a dish of that rhubarb in the ice box, too. Now, what’s for dessert?”
Prudie is lucky some of the time. She gets to go straight from breakfast to dessert, lickety split. No vegetables or fruit cocktail jello for her. I eat two helpings of dessert because there’s still plenty of waiting for me to do. Grandma cleans up the kitchen and washes the dishes. She usually scrubs the floor after dinner except for today. Since I’m hanging around the kitchen, Grandma gives me the nod. “Bo, you get the bucket and scrub that floor good. That achy arthritis is in my knees today.” Some days I wish I had arthritis in my knees, but Grandma and Grandpa always say, “No you don’t,” and they usually know more than I do.
Finally Grandma goes off to her sewing and Grandpa turns the baseball game on the radio. And finally Prudie is ready. She opens the cupboards and gets out the sugar and the corn syrup. She fetches butter and vanilla and we start mixing. Prudie won’t let me help with the boiling part. She uses a candy thermometer and it has to read 160 degrees before the taffy is cooked. She’s afraid I’ll get burned, but I fear she’ll get burned too. Instead, Prudie gives me the messiest jobs. “Bo, spread that butter all over the counter. Don’t miss a spot. Good and greasy or the taffy will stick.”
It takes a long time to make taffy, and I mostly watch. When the taffy is cool enough to touch, Prudie and I slap it down on the counter. We take turns pulling. It’s hard work and it takes both of us to get the job done. I pull until my wrists hurt and my arms are about to pull out of my sockets, but Prudie’s arms are stronger than mine. Go figure that!
“See how shiny that candy is,” boasts Prudie. “Butter up those scissors and I’ll cut up the candy. Get the waxed paper and wrap the pieces. And be sure to twist those ends tight. I can’t chew hard taffy.”
“But Prudie,” I coax. “Can’t we eat a few pieces now?” The taffy is warm and soft, and I beg for the go ahead to snarf down a handful of sweet candy.
“No. It’s time for my lunch and I don’t want to ruin my appetite. We’ll surprise everyone with a treat after supper.” Then she hands me the full tray. “Set that on the table so I can cut up those pieces.”
I reach for the tray full of taffy, but my hands are buttery and the tray slips from my fingers. It clatters to the floor. The taffy flips over and lands flat.
I cry right then and there. “Prudie, the taffy’s full of germs now. We can’t eat it.”
Prudie looks at me like I’m crazy. “Full of germs? Hogwash! Didn’t you scrub that floor not an hour ago? Pick that taffy up and slide it back onto the tray. No germs caught on that candy and those germs would slide right off if ever they did jump on that taffy.”
My mom’s taught me lots about germs and I’m not sure germs slide off food all that easy. Prudie’s germs behave a lot differently than Mom’s germs do. But I don’t want to throw all that taffy away, so I choose to listen to Prudie’s advice.
“Prudie, you’re the nurse in this apartment. I suppose you know more about germs than the rest of us put together.”
“You’re dern tootin’, Bo.” Prudie nearly giggles out loud, like a schoolgirl, as she hands me a piece of taffy. “You’re dern tootin’ right.”
