Nanny Reed's Tea Cakes

                I have been blessed with four fabulous grandparents.  My Nanny Turner, my maternal grandmother, sat Indian style on the floor and played War with me all the time when I was little, and hosted family gatherings every holiday.  I can remember sitting in her backyard husking corn, or hulling beans and laughing the afternoon away with my aunts, grandmother, and mom. We had conversations about what I wanted to be when I grew up, and how she had wanted to be a singer (just like me).

                My Pawpaw Turner drove me to Krispy Kreme for late evening snacks and to watch the donuts being made.  Funny how much I miss those donuts now that I am older.  He took me to get my driver’s license, and would just about maim you if you tickled him.  He could wiggle his ears and make a quack that sounded just like Donald Duck.  I learned how to wiggle my ears from him, or maybe it is a Turner family trait, because now my oldest prides herself on that ability.

                My Pawpaw Reed honked at the air, which never failed to make me howl with glee. He wore bolo ties and cowboy boots and loved my Nanny Reed unfailingly. He taught me about hornet’s nests, and made leg traps for me as I walked by.  We drank Coca-Colas on the front porch and talked while we swung on the swing.

                My Nanny Reed listened as I lamented my first crush, read me stories about trains, and made me cookies.  The cookies formed much of our relationship as I grew into my teens.  I tended to be a moody teen, and honestly, from what I am told, was just not very pleasant to be around.  Nanny was sick for several of her last years on earth, though I did not realize just how sick until it was too late. But, even through her sickness, she made those cookies.  Tea cakes, with homemade jam or jelly sandwiched in between two thin tea cake wafers.  Every single time I saw her, no matter how sick she had been, she had a tin full of cookies for me. I don’t think she made them for others, or at least I like to think they were special just for me. I can remember, I would hold those cookies in my room - the tin kept them air tight – and eat one cookie a day, until they were gone. (Clearly I had more self control in my youth.)  I loved those cookies.  They were delicious, but more than that, they were from her to me – a special link between Nanny and granddaughter.

                I said that she always made them, no matter how sick she was, but there was once, when she did not have a tin waiting for me.  The last time I saw her.   I had driven down from college to visit her in the hospital.  She had been in the hospital many times; I was not worried.  I was young enough, that I assumed being in the hospital simply meant that you didn’t feel well, nothing more. And so, I had sat in the room with Nanny, assuming that this was just like the other times, and that there would be many more times to talk, and certainly many more cookies. 

                And we did talk, that day in the hospital.  We talked of family history, and that day I learned more than I had ever known about my aunt, and uncle, and my ancestors. Nanny admitted to me that she had struggled to know what to say to me, during my teen years (I was a worldly 22 by then), and I wondered if she had made the cookies to fill the silence, to find a way to connect with a teenager who no longer needed or wanted to sit on the porch and drink Coca Colas.  It was a good day.  I left feeling good, and not at all concerned that it might be the last day.

                But, it was. Just a short time later, my father called to tell me she was gone.  She had died in the same hospital that we shared our last conversation in.  I was heartbroken.  It was the first time I had dealt with death so close to me before. I had seen the deaths of friends, but not in my family. I went to the funeral, and I can remember wanting to shout at the pastor as he mispronounced her name, her beautiful name, Marion Christine, McConnell Reed. 

                So it shook me, down to my core.  When I prayed to God, I asked him to tell Nanny I loved her and I missed her, and to fill her in on what was going on in my life. I tried not to have to go to Nanny and Pawpaw’s house, because it just was not the same without her there.

                But life goes on, and I was in the midst of planning my wedding and graduating from college, so I had plenty to consume my thoughts.  It was several months before I thought about the recipe for my cookies.  I asked my stepmother if she had it, certain she would.  But she did not.  She had thought she had the recipe, but having followed it, she realized it was wrong, not Nanny’s recipe at all. I think when that happened, when there was no chance of getting Nanny’s cookie ever again, Nanny died again, for me, more completely this time.  

                This past December was 16 years since Nanny passed away, and still, not having that recipe remained one of my life’s chief regrets. So I took my sadness to Facebook and posted a tribute to my Nanny ending with a lament about missing her delicious cookies.  Remarkably, my Aunt posted back, telling me she did not have the recipe but that she knew that Nanny had gotten it from an Auburn cookbook written in the 50s.  Since I was not sure how to come across this cookbook, I thought the chances of finding the recipe were still pretty slim.  I filed it away as something that I would keep my eyes open for, but to not hope for.

                A few weeks passed, and I opened my email one day at school. My daddy had sent an email with the title “Recipes.” I assumed that it was some recipes that my stepmom, Pat, and I had discussed sharing, and I did not open the email immediately.  It was not till later in the day, that I took the time to look.  The first recipe was from Pat, and I scrolled past it to see which other one she had sent.  Tears sprang to my eyes immediately, as I saw the name of the second recipe, “Nanny Reed’s Tea Cake Cookies.”  I read through the recipe and realized how difficult they must have been to make when she felt so poorly.  Calling my father, he told me that my aunt had been able to locate a cookbook and sent the recipe on to him.

                I wish I could say that I had rushed home to make the cookies, but they take several hours of chilling and rolling and cutting, so I have not.  I want to have a large amount of time to devote to them, so that the first tasting is perfect.  So, after 16 years, I finally have a way to connect to my Nanny Reed again, by tasting her tea cakes.  I cannot wait to share them with my daughters and pass on those memories to them. 

Last Little Girl

Today, the snow had just started falling,  and the girls went out to "play" in it.  Honestly,  there was nothing to play in, but they wanted to freeze, I guess.  I watched from the window.

I was watching Olivia walk down the road in front of our house catching the snow on her tongue, when I realized I was not looking at Olivia at all.  I was looking at Lauryn-Elizabeth.  And just for a second my heart broke.  She looked so grown, not like the little girl she was even just last year. So grown, even,  that I mistook her for Olivia.  I love who she is turning out to be,  but I sure do miss my "La-Bis."

A Halloween Surprise

When I was in about the 1st grade, I wanted a stuffed animal.  Not just any stuffed animal though, this was the most perfect of stuffed animals – a basset hound stuffed teddy-dog (can’t call it a bear since it was a dog).  It was so cute, with big droopy eyes that pleaded with you to come snuggle with him, and soft mahogany fur that was exactly the color I wished my hair was.  There was just one problem: This teddy-dog could not be bought in a store.  Instead, to bring this sweet puppy home, you had to open a new account at the bank.  (In those days, banks often enticed customers to change banks by offering incentives like blenders, coffee pots, and, more important to me, the occasional stuffed animal.)  To make matters even more difficult, my mom worked at the bank, the same bank, in fact, that offered Beaureguard (the perfect plush pet came pre-named).

So, I appealed to my mommy. “Mommy, Can you please get me Beaureguard?  I really love him so much!”

“Wendy, we already have an account with the bank.  We don’t need to open another.  I’m sorry, but I just don’t think that there is a way to get that stuffed animal,” my mom explained.

So, I appealed to my daddy.  “Daddy!  I really, really, reallllllly want Beaureguard! Can you get him for me?”

“Now Wendy, you have lots of stuffed animals.  You do not really need another one,” my dad reminded me.

This fact was true.  I did have countless other stuffed animals.  But none were stuffed doggies, and certainly none were as ideal as Beaureguard.  So, I tried again, this time listing all the reasons I felt like he was superior to any other stuffed animal.

“Daddy, Beaureguard is bigger than me so he can protect me from the boogey-man at night!  And Daddy, he has the softest, most affectionate eyes I have ever seen.  I just know he wants to be my puppy as much as I want him!  And Daddy, did you see his fur?  It’s the color of a horse’s mane, and don’t you just love him as much as I do?” I beseeched.

But my parents weren’t budging.  They were ever the pragmatists, reminding me it would not be prudent to open a new account, and besides, what did I need a new stuffed animal for anyway, with all the dozens I already had?  So, I tried to content myself with playing with my old, unexciting stuffed animals and Barbies.  But every time I saw the commercial on TV offering the magnificent stuffed doggie with love blazing in his eyes, I felt my heart droop even lower than his basset hound eyes.

A few months passed, and I tried to put him out of my mind, but the harder I tried to stop thinking about him, the more I seemed to dwell on him.  His big floppy ears and gigantic goofy grin seemed to find their way into every day dream I had. 

Thankfully, Halloween was approaching and that gave me something to occupy my thoughts for a while.  I was going to be a witch complete with a spinach - green face and a nasty wart on my nose! I was very excited that my mom had even bought me a tall witch’s hat. I was certain I would have the best costume of all my friends! 

Finally, the big night came, and like every afternoon, I had gone over to the friend’s house after school so I would not be home alone.  I had brought my costume with me so that I would be ready to go trick-or-treating as soon as my parents came to pick me up.  Feeling quite resplendent in my costume, I met my dad at the door as soon as he knocked.  Swinging the door open wide, so he could see what a becoming witch I made, I expected him to be pleased with my hard work getting ready.  But, to my surprise, when I opened the door, Daddy was already beaming like the headlights on our two-toned Chevy Citation.  My mouth dropped open when I saw what was in his hands – Beaureguard!

I grabbed him up, and held him close to my chest, being careful not to get any of my green witch face makeup on his velvety, soft chestnut fur.

“Oh!  Daddy! You got him for me!  But how?”  I breathed with wonder in my voice.  “You told me there was just no way!”

But my daddy just smiled.  “You wanted him,” he shrugged, “and so I got him for you.”  In that moment, my daddy was my hero, and I looked up at him and hugged him tight, crushing Beaureguard in between us. “Thank you, Daddy.  I love you.”

                We got in the car and drove away to start trick -or-treating, but in my mind, I had already gotten the best Halloween prize of all.

                And after almost 30 years, Beaureguard still sits on my bed every day, reminding me of my Daddy’s love.