A Tourist in Mayberry

Part 6/1) Notes from My Diary Journal: Visiting the Retirement Center

We would stay in the rec room until it was time to go eat with Mama Snow. Mama Snow ate lunch at 11:30 prompt. Mama Snow was a retired National Security Agency office manager. Before her retirement, she was single handedly responsible for the staff at the NSA putting on several pounds a year from her banana puddings alone.

Mama Snow lived in an apartment in the retirement complex. She never told Magdalena or me her age, but from events she talked about (she had known, known not just met, President Kennedy) she had to be at least 75. She was 4 foot 8, with gray curly hair worn shoulder length. She wore simple, pastel monochrome dresses and a handmade apron around her waist. She was chunky in a Santa way that made you want to hug her, but she was not soft. She was tough as nails. She was an extraordinary cook and, best of all, she insisted we eat lunch with her everyday because, as she put it, "I love company and cooking for my babies." She called us her babies.

Mama Snow made southern foods featured in the fanciest southern style restaurants. Paula Deen could take some tips from her. Mama Snow made cornbread that wanted to be cake and looked like a picture on the cover of Southern Living. The texture was perfect, never dry. The cornbread was good hot, cold, with or without a slab of butter. It was nectar, food for the gods.

Mama Snow made slaw like I have never tasted. She ruined slaw for me because I have never since met its match. Slaw is a simple dish, but some people can mess it up with too much mayonnaise or no mayonnaise or vinegar or fancy embellishments meant to make it pretty without any regard to taste. Slaw is a simple dish but easy to taint. Such a simple dish, it would be embarrassed to know it was being discussed. That is all I am going to say about the slaw because slaw is not a prissy food and does not warrant over-praise.

All of Mama Snow's cooking deserves recognition, but her most famous creation was her pound cake. Pound cake, normally a southern staple, is also simple and best served plain. A singular dessert with no need for frosting or a fruit topping to insult it's simplicity and perfection. This delicacy was so revered in the retirement community that Mama Snow would have to save us a piece from the neighborhood vultures, otherwise known as her friends.

At Mama Snow's, we always ate off the good china and drank our milk or sweet tea out of her crystal glasses. We were company and Mama Snow treated us like company. Magdalena and I would set the table and we would gather the dishes from her china cabinet. We could pick from the Lenox China or her colorful set of Fiesta ware. We especially liked picking from her collection of salt and pepper shakers and sugar bowls. Mama Snow said she was not saving these dishes or her collections for someone else to use or eat off after she was dead and gone. Though she never talked about her own family much she said, "Always serve your family with the best you have, they deserve it." Mama Snow treated us like royalty, company, and family all at the same time.

After Mama Snow's usual substantial lunch, Magdalena and I went to visit Mr. Cropps. We spent about an hour or two each day visiting with him and watching TV. He liked the history channel and oddly, HGTV, though he could never again do home improvements or beachfront bargain hunt. Later, when we learned to talk with him, Mr. Cropps explained the appeal of HGTV to a man in his situation. "Everybody likes to dream, even old men stuck in a bed." And so, we would watch a flipped house and oohhh and ahh at the transformation or look for a house and talk to the house hunters and give them advice. "That's way over budget" or "We want granite countertops" or "No carpet, please. This is the beach, we need tile." And, most important to all home seekers, "Stainless steel appliances only, and we insist on a gas stove."

We were quite particular in our requirements for the perfect home. Mr. Cropps would add, " We want move-in ready. We do not want a fixer upper. We are just not handy." He would then laugh his funny, grunting laugh.

After Mr. Cropps, we would head back to the retirement center and end up at the rec room where the Wild Bunch played cards most afternoons. Magdalena and I learned how to play blackjack and poker with these masters of deception and trickery. By the end of the summer, Mr. Matthew Jenkins said we were ready for Las Vega or Monte Carlo. He promised he would teach us to shoot pool next.

Now while you are probably thinking that maybe two teenage girls did not need to learn to play poker or shoot pool, consider Magdalena's home life and what these diversions meant to us. We were in a place where people welcomed us, and wanted us, and fed us, and played with us, and looked forward to our visits. This was our home. This was our family.

One other thing we did with the Wild Bunch that summer was listen to Sheriff Nichols's tales of mystery and suspense. We learned a lot that summer about regional history and the mystery and intrigue that was our hometown. It was not quite as boring a place as we once thought.

One day at the end of the summer, we went home early to get ready for a summer activity for rising freshman at our new high school. There was going to be a cookout. Magdalena and I were clueless and nervous about what to wear and how to wear our hair, so we left before Sheriff Nichols visited.

If only we had been there, we could have warned my mom she was on a short list of suspects in the disappearance of a mayor.

Author's Insight: Dedicated to my Mama Snow, a great cook who could make a simple lunch seem like a feast.