Lessons from My Grandmothers

June 28, 2007
Article and Illustration by Jim Burger

Share:

I’m back! It is I, Jim Burger, recipient of the “Jayson Blair Excellence in Journalism Award.” Many of you no doubt remember me from the days when I penned the Alonsoville column for the Baltimore Messenger. I got fired. Still others, I’m sure, will recall my Town Crier musings for Style magazine. I got fired there, too. I can explain: In both cases my editors were a) men and b) jerks.

But now I’m at Baltimore SmartWoman magazine and I can practically smell my Pulitzer Prize. “Smart Woman” — I just like the sound of it. I also have a good feeling about my editor, Hope Keller. She recruited, interviewed and hired me all during the same breakfast. When we finished, she stuck me with the check. That’s pretty bright.

I’ve known many smart women during my life, but two of the first were my grandmothers, Elsie and Lena. I came from a small town in western Pennsylvania — a hellish coal-mining, steel-working satellite of Pittsburgh. To make matters worse, we lived on the outskirts of the hamlet. The only bright spot in that frontier existence was that across the street from our house was a huge, overgrown field. I recall a certain summer day as a child of 8. I was trudging through the field with my parents, and the three of us were picking the enormous black raspberries that grew wild there.

Lest any reader conjure a Norman Rockwell-esque image of the scene, be advised that the place was home to flesh-tearing sticker bushes, a remarkably virulent specie of poison ivy and a goodly number of copperheads. The family dog joined us in a non-berry-picking capacity, but his presence ensured the expedition’s success by keeping the aforementioned snakes at bay.

It was hot, sweaty work, with plenty of thorn pricks to show for my trouble. And it seemed to take forever to fill the bucket I was carrying — the time greatly increased due to the fact that for every three berries I picked, I popped one in my mouth.

Consumption in the field notwith-standing, I eventually collected enough to return to my house, where my grandmothers were waiting. Those women were the largest pistons in a pie-baking engine. I was a mere cog. They took my full container, dumped its contents into a large pot in the sink and filled it with water. Immediately all manner of flotsam rose to the surface — leaves, twigs, ants, dirt, whatever. They dutifully skimmed off the offending items, and repeated the process over and over until the berries were completely clean.

Hesitant to return to the indignities of forced labor, I remained and watched their perfect ballet. One woman combined cups of sugar and additional ingredients to the fruit to make the thick pie filling, while the other rolled out dough to make the crusts. My mouth was practically watering in anticipation of the final product. The grandmothers’ pies were legendary among friends and family.

Once the filled shells covered the kitchen table the baking began and a delicious aroma filled the air. I looked at the unbaked pies. It was almost unnoticeable at first. I looked again, closer. Something was moving, struggling to free itself from the goop. I jumped back and screamed: “Something’s moving! Inside that pie! Look!”

My grandmothers turned. “Where? Which one?”

“That one,” I yelled, pointing. One of my grandmothers walked over and moved a few berries around with her finger. She extracted what appeared to be an insect of some variety, squashed it and flicked its corpse into the trash. Then she carefully draped the top crust back over the pie. I had recoiled to the corner of the kitchen. Only in the loosest definition was I even still in the room.

Grandma Lena picked up the pie and Grandma Elsie opened the oven door. I was hysterical. “What if there’s another bug in there?” I shrieked. Grandma Lena placed the pie in the oven and Grandma Elsie closed the door. Then they turned to me, shrugged and in unison said, “So? You eat a bug.” And with that, they began filling more pie shells. I stood for a while in silence. They said nothing more. Finally I took my bucket and returned to the field, back to the berries and the snakes.

I don’t remember anything else about that day. But I do recall that that night, after eating dinner, I ate two slices of pie, both of which tasted like heaven.

Many people can go through their entire lives without learning a lesson like that. I was lucky to be taught so soon. And it was so simple: Sometimes life blows. It’s not the end of the world. And it will all work out.

Elsie and Lena are long gone now, but their words are still etched upon my heart. The point isn’t whether or not I eat bugs. I do. We all do — sometimes several a day. The trick is to enjoy all the wonderful tastes that surround them so sweetly.

Filed Under: View From Mars

Smart Woman Online

Navigation