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They
say children of a certain age absorb knowledge like sponges and
I believe that to be true. You have only to look at how very young
kids pick up foreign languages effortlessly. That being said, I
believe the same holds true for ingesting and absorbing other types
of information, memories, for example. My mother and her family
lived on a farm during the Great Depression until she and one of
her sisters left Caldwell
for the big city of Houston
to work for “rich folks” as housekeepers and babysitters. They all
had a pretty hard time of it on the farm and, to a lesser degree,
in Houston, according
to the stories Mama and several of her 3 siblings told. The oldest
married at a young age and we saw her less often that we did my
uncle and my other aunt as I was growing up.
I guess I heard
them tell about their experiences so often I got the idea that one
had to be very careful to conserve, save and avoid waste at all
costs. As we were somewhat poor during my own childhood, the lesson
went straight home. It might have even been embedded in my DNA,
to some extent. The result was I became downright stingy about some
things. Both my brother Butch and I usually had little banks in
which we dropped our change. The idea was save for a rainy day,
in my mind, and Butch was more likely to save until he wanted to
buy something, a model airplane kit, candy, marbles, perhaps. I
became obsessive about counting my money and could be found a couple
of times a week with a butter knife, sliding the blade into the
slot to enable the coins to slip out onto the table, then stacking
them in different denominations. All I needed was a high wooden
stool, a tall desk to match and a green eyeshade, and I could have
passed for a miser in a 19th century counting house with no trouble.
This behavior did not go unnoticed, either. Frankly, it drove my
mother to distraction and she often snapped at me to go find something
else to do, “for Heaven's sake, Sissy!”
My inner urge to save and conserve extended to the kitchen, in particular,
which affected the rest of the family. Frozen orange juice was still
a fairly new item, I think, in the mid fifties, and my job was to
mix it up and get it to melt in time for breakfast. The thing is,
there was only one method used to fast freeze foods and it took
forever to get the little orange iceberg to melt and blend. That
meant endless stirring. The directions called for 3 cans of water
to be added to the frozen concentrate. Now I loved, really loved,
orange juice, and I started thinking of ways to stretch it so that
I might have a larger portion. I began to add a few extra ounces
of water at a time and thought I was pretty smart. At some point,
however, it became noticeable to the others . My brother and my
mother reacted with great vigor, and I was told to follow the directions
on the can...period. It was with reluctance, because I did think
they were making a big to-do over nothing, that I got back on track
for awhile, but then the temptation to extend this liquid sunshine
grew to be too much and I started watering it down again. I made
it all the way up to an extra can and a half and was busted, once
and for all.
My other culinary conservation effort centered around Kool Aid.
The directions were straightforward, empty the nickel packet of
powder into the pitcher, add one cup of sugar and two quarts of
water. Stir, then serve over ice. Okay, no big deal. Then that little
demon, my inner skinflint, started speaking to me. “Save sugar”,
it said. “It costs lots of money”, it whispered in my ear. “Might
need it later for something really important.” and “It's a good
thing you're doing, Sissy.” I admit it, I was helpless to ignore
the call. Some might say what I did was hoarding, but I prefer to
think of it as a sort of husbandry or stewardship over the light
tan five pound paper bag, waste not, want not, and all that. I became
convinced that a half cup of sugar wasn't really so much less than
a full cup and went whole hog. On that first foray into becoming
a financial savior of the Giles household I didn't bother to dilute
the pitcher because I was already points ahead on saving sugar.
Now I've always liked sour and astringent foods and beverages so
I enjoyed my first sample, but it became quickly evident by the
facial expressions on Mama, Aunt Pee Wee and Butch that I may have
miscalculated somewhat. Butch demanded that I not be allowed to
mix the stuff “ever”, even my kind and gentle aunt shook her head
and whispered “Sissy, Sissy” and I was, once again, off kitchen
duty.
© Frances Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
June 13, 2015 Column
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