It was just a yellow piece of paper. One of those mini-Post-It notes, actually. Posted up on the right side (I think?) of the pantry. I last saw it in 2011. 12 years later, I’m still thinking of that yellow piece of paper.
How is it those little things can be so meaningful?
Betty Crocker
Dark Chocolate Brownies
Very Good
Underlined, in the way only Papaw can.
I’m not sure if I ever noticed the note before March of 2004. See, that was when Papaw passed on, an event we could have only assumed would never actually happen. It was those interim years between 2004 & 2011 when I really took comfort in finding the message Papaw left for us. Each time I was home from New York—summertime, Christmastime, or some of the other random times in between. Every time, I’d park on that black arc of an asphalt driveway—summer heat bubbling up the fragrant tar, always a signal I was home—walk across the smooth concrete floor of the carport, then up the two gray-painted steps, open the aluminum screen door and step onto the screened-in porch, then on into the kitchen.
2715 Alice Avenue. It was home more than any place for me has ever been.
Mamaw & Papaw were more likely than not to be sitting on the porch. Mamaw at the table at porch-center, beneath the ceiling fan. Royal blue polyester pants, with holes worn on the knees from decades of wear, hands twisting tissue, hazel eyes—“Well, how are youuu?” Papaw in his cushioned chair at right, back towards the beige brick outer kitchen wall. Hands holding a Bon Air Public Library book, small blue eyes brightening with every visitor’s arrival: “We’ve got some lemonade in there; yes, sir.” (whether you were a sir or a ma’am). Each and every arriving guest greeted, then welcomed to partake of the pantry offerings: Bugles, cheese puffs, Ritz crackers, crinkly packets of Lance crackers (Captain’s Wafers, Toasty peanut butter, or Toast Chee cheese wafers with peanut butter).
“We’ve got some Swan’s ice cream sundaes in there…” Mamaw & Papaw made sure to
offer. Vanilla ice cream, chocolate swirls.
In through the doors every single person used to enter 2715—the glass door, then the cream-colored wooden door with dark brown trim. Immediately, the smell of bacon and eggs, coffee. The scented memories of so many breakfasts, lunches, family gatherings. Also, the smell of Mamaw & Papaw’s next day’s breakfast set out on the counter and in the fridge the afternoon before (!).
Papaw’s little wooden TV stand on the right with his small rabbit-eared set, just barely within the corner of the living room’s green carpet. Thin, beige wood door straight ahead leading downstairs to the basement and Papaw’s pride and joy—the expertly maintained pool table. A true billiards paradise down there. Small, lightly used kitchen table on left—with window looking out to the porch, stove and large fridge on right, sink and white kitchen cabinets (originally robin blue color) on left, with a window above sink overlooking a large backyard. White linoleum floor leading to the dining room.
Green carpet, six large seats around a table that could be expanded, china cabinet along the back wall, window at left looking out to the backyard. Upon entering the room, the food pantry at corner right. A relatively small spongy sticker of Barney Rubble was affixed at door-center. It had been there most of my life. Probably since my age was in the single-digits. Always wanting to follow my cousin T’s lead, in ’91 when “Rocketeer” was released, I affixed a red, blue and gold sticker from the film right by Barney (was it above or below?). I’d never even seen the movie, and still have not. But I wanted to leave my own mark on the pantry as T had.
The pantry: full of snacks. That’s it in a nutshell—to the layperson. In reality, it was so much more…waystation for Hall family night time basement gatherings…paper plate lunches on the porch…provisions for late-night billiards competitions…requisite snacks to carry into Mamaw & Papaw’s bedroom where so many public gatherings took place, almost exclusively here after c. 2000.
To this day, I can’t see a Bugle without thinking of sitting around the plastic white table on the porch between Mamaw & Papaw. I hear “cheese puff” and am brought back magically into the basement, grabbing puffs aplenty from white paper plates as Papaw sits in his place at the far right of the couch by the somewhat scary looking red painted fireplace as sisters, parents and I gather ‘round watching shows and sometimes a movie on the massive wooden box TV. A globe of the world atop the set, with Papaw’s bar just in the background and the miniature slot machine on its counter (thankfully, I still retain the globe as well as a bottle of the Mamaw-labeled “White Wine” from the bar—a terrifying ancient muddy swirl of badly fermented alcohol which has looked just as terrifying since I was at Seneca High).
One couldn’t walk into the pantry. If so inclined, which I was allowed to do on one occasion as a lad, I could step up into the open space and pull down a set of stairs leading to an attic-like space. The only time I ever saw up in there. But the open space was always packed with foodstuffs, surrounded by upper and lower wooden shelving on each side. On the back of the door, a calendar—typically one of the free ones sent out by a charity each Christmas season during fundraising, where Papaw would mark down notations of Mamaw’s “allowance”—from his Texaco pension and money no doubt soon distributed in large part among the six grandchildren.
Red Folger’s coffee cannisters, Chips Ahoy, perhaps some aluminum cans of vegetables or more Vienna sausages (oh, I just suffered a flashback of the slime the sausages were marinating in). As the insiders know, however, most of the cans were in the bottom right cabinet in the kitchen proper. Potato chips…oh! A red Pringles label just came flashing back. Yes, I definitely finished off some Pringles containers for sure. Pretty sure Cheez Whiz—or Easy Cheese—spray cheese was also at the ready.
Oh! A big box of Bazooka Joe gum. As a kid, we loved to grab chewing gum pieces from there, reading the little comic accompanying each piece of gum.
And, of course there must have been extra jars of pickles. For pickles were a staple food eaten daily. At any given moment there would be at least one cold jar of pickles in the fridge, with extra jars ready to go in the pantry and possibly also into the kitchen cabinet.
Bringing us back to where we began—Betty Crocker’s brownie mix. On the pantry shelf at right, or left?? Darn it. I must have a photo somewhere of exactly where they were placed. I took some photos like that with the expectation that I would want to know—need to remember—such minute details. And then, it was gone.
It is too heart wrenching to say it aloud, but on a final visit inside 2715 before the home was sold to an outsider, I looked once more inside the pantry and the paper was nowhere to be found. To this day, I think of this from time to time and regret not ensuring preservation of the Post-it note; Papaw’s handwritten script.
Some may wonder, but to what end? How can such a simple note regarding a box of brownie mixture possibly be of any importance?
Furthermore, how could a tiny yellow mini-Post-It note contain enough significance for me to spend several hours writing this little tale, conjuring up so many reminiscences I can smell the bacon grease and coffee in the kitchen even now?
The paper was originally meant for Mamaw & Papaw as a shopping reminder, I presume. Mamaw often wrote up grocery lists and Papaw’s organizational notes were commonplace. But it took on a life of its own after Papaw’s passing, becoming a connection to this man who was legend.
As I grow older, as people are ought to do, I realize more than ever that most of my completely personal possessions could be chucked out and burned. It’s the little yellow Post-It note written in Papaw’s distinctive script which is like gold. For now, I must settle for a memory. It can still really take me back, though, I’m telling you. Standing within the open pantry door, snacking paradise before me, I can see it right now:
Betty Crocker
Dark Chocolate Brownies
Very Good
Don't Let My Parents Read This 