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Quote of the Day: Bonus Edition, April 16, 2017
My grandmother Molly could be a rather stern old lady. She was born when Queen Victoria was still on the throne, on April 16, 1898. She died in 1988, long-lived, like many in my family.
If I were to tell you just one thing about Granny, it would be this: She. Never. Gave. In. Every morning she was even remotely able, she got out of bed, put on her combinations (don’t ask), hauled and strapped herself into her corset and girdle, put on her old-fashioned womanly clothes, did her hair and her face, and went out to meet the day.
Most who knew her, I’m sure, thought of her as a redoubtable and unyielding old lady, one it was better not to cross, a pillar of rectitude, and a stalwart of her much-loved church.
But sometimes, I knew a very different Granny. A cuddly Granny. A snuggly Granny. One who always had a space in her bed, early in the morning, for her first, and much loved, grandchild. And one whose dressing-table top drawer, located just within reach of the bed, always held a cornucopia of delights.
You see, my granny always had lots of chocolates. Chocolate bars. Chocolate buttons. Plain chocolates. Filled chocolates. Chocolate-covered fruits and nuts. Chocolates of every shape and size.
And this little girl liked nothing better on a Sunday morning than to crawl into her granny’s bed and be allowed the joy of investigating them all, and to pick out one or two as a treat.
It ruined me for life.
But it probably explains why, as a child, Easter was my favorite Church holiday, up to, and including, even Christmas.
Yes, I loved the children’s service at Granny’s parish church. I loved the hymns, the music (sometimes Grandpa played the organ) and the rituals. I loved the flowers, and the scents. I loved coming back to Granny’s for Sunday lunch. But just as much, I confess, I loved the chocolates.
Of course, Cadbury’s, the first English company to mass-produce Easter eggs, was the home-grown favorite, as they were manufactured down the road from Granny, in Bournville, just outside Birmingham. Additionally, the cows in the field at the bottom of the garden of our own home in Worcestershire generously sent their milk off to the Cadbury factory. (Like Joseph Fry and Joseph Rowntree, two other great English chocolate makers, John Cadbury was a Quaker. Their enlightened and humane treatment of their workers, their interest in education and their workers’ living conditions, their attempts to improve the sometimes barbarous collection of the essential cocoa beans in far-flung lands, inspired their American counterpart, Milton Hershey to do likewise, a bit later on).
I don’t think the Easter egg I still dream about was a Cadbury product, though. I don’t know who made it. But it was the most beautiful and special chocolate thing I’d ever seen or eaten in my life.
It was a fairly large egg. It was a hollow egg, in two halves, perfectly fitted together. It was filled with really nice, and really delicious, chocolates. And it was decorated with candied violets and rosebuds (real ones), together with iced leaves and trailing vines. And it was wrapped in cellophane that rustled and crinkled when you touched it. And the whole thing was tied up in a huge bow with an enormous length of wide yellow ribbon. It almost makes me cry just thinking about it.
Oh, I’ve had lots of lovely chocolates in my life. And I’ve never really minded how I came by them. As Valentine gifts from my Sweetie. As presents from family members and friends who indulge my not-so-secret weakness. As surprises from admirers, probably with ulterior motives (well, maybe just one ulterior motive), who sent them, carefully packaged and boxed, through the mail. (Ha! Those were the days.) On occasion, I’m ashamed to admit, when I’ve run out, or when people have forgotten about me, I’ve even been reduced to buying them for myself. “Sad!” As I might Tweet, if were ever to do such a ridiculous thing.
But in over half a century, I’ve never seen, or tasted, a chocolate treat as magnificent, as beautiful, and as delicious as the egg that graced Granny’s table one Easter when I was about five years old.
Much time has passed since then, and, in the words of the creaky and ancient song that Granny loved so much, “Darling I am growing old.” And I doubt I’m unique in worrying about what sort of “footprint” I will leave to the world. Will I have made a difference? Will I matter? Has anyone noticed? Will anyone care?
Fortunately for me, a recent event has refreshed my optimism, and convinced me that the answer to all those questions, undeserving as I doubtless am of it, might actually be, “Yes.”
As some of you may know, I’m a granny myself, of a smart, kind, and beautiful nine-year old. She lives about 125 miles away, and I don’t see her nearly as often as I’d like. Opportunities for snuggling, therefore, are far too infrequent. No matter. Even with the limited time available to me, I’ve made my mark and done my job. I’ve ruined her for life.
A while ago, her mother told me of a conversation she’d overheard between my granddaughter and a little friend. It went something like this:
Friend: “I wish we had some chocolates.”
Granddaughter: “We should go to my granny’s house.”
Friend: “Your granny is nice.”
Granddaughter: “Yeah. She is. I love her. And, [lowers her voice to a thrilled whisper] my granny always has lots of chocolates.”
Bingo.
Game over.
Earth turns, seasons change, and the cycle begins anew. Just as it should.
Happy Easter, everyone! And Happy one-hundred-nineteenth Birthday, my chocolate-loving granny!
Published in General
What a great story! Thanks for sharing it.
Brilliant!
My family loves chocolates. We eat them like they’re part of the food groups. My maternal grandfather was in his late teen when he had chocolates for the first time. They were Neuhaus bonbons. He was hooked. When Cambodia reopened to the west in 1993, his old friend came back from Paris, bringing with him boxes and boxes of Belgian and Swiss chocolates. That was the first time I tasted chocolates.
Oh She! We should all be so ruined.
Lovely, delightful, heart-warming and joyous.
Thank you for sharing Grandma Molly.
Wonderful prose and funny too. You go She!
“Your hand and your mouth agreed many years ago that, as far as chocolate is concerned, there is no need to involve your brain.” ― Dave Barry
P.S. Great tale, wonderful memory, beautifully told. We all are our stories.
Too funny and also oh so true. Never heard that one before.
But . . . But . . . BUT . . .
My brain keeps on being bombarded with news about how good chocolate is for me, and how I should eat more of it. Seems to me engaging the brain is essential to self-fulfillment here.
I love Dave Barry, but I think he’s wrong on this.
I read an interview with Jacques Pepin, the French chef, who said that the first time he ever tasted chocolate was when a GI tossed Hershey bars to the children as they liberated his village.
My mother was at boarding school near Malvern, in England, for part of the war. The schoolgirls were specifically ordered to stay away from the American soldiers, with their promises of chocolate, nylons, and lipstick. I wonder if things have changed all that much over the years . . .
But you could use the chocolate to draw the seam of the stocking up the back of your leg….
Yeah. She used to do that. With shoe polish.
I’m going to have to find that book.
I’m channeling a Van Halen song, here…
Had to look it up, but OK . . . .
I did too. “I’ve always liked those kind of high heels, too…”
I so love this. I just became a grandma myself this last year. Your post brought to mind things about my grandmother that I wish to share with my granddaughter. Thank you!
Gini, your comment made my day! Enjoy your granddaughter at every stage of her life. She’ll grow up so fast. And thank you.
LOL! That was great. You’ve become your grandmother. Ah our fragmented lives now that families are so far apart. One of the detriments of modern life. 125 miles is actually not too bad. Could be worse.
In a manner of speaking. Without the combinations, corsets and girdle, though. (Won’t go any further. Might be TMI.)
Another word is Facetime. Last night my eight-year old granddaughter clear across the country in Atlanta rang up on my Ipad and said, “Mimi, I’m almost forgetting what your house looks like. Would you give me a tour?” Delighted out of my brain, I obligingly went from room to room happily listening as she commented on any changes she saw. While I only get to see her once or twice a year, we frequently use Facetime, and it makes all the difference.
I have to take a Claritin before reading any She post due to allergies causing me to either tear up or sigh wistfully.
Allergies. Because I’m a grown man.