Pressed Between the Pages

PRESSED BETWEEN THE PAGES

DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel, Columnist

A Place for Everything

It was kind of scary. I was the only little person among adults—two uncles, Grandma and Mom. We sat around the big oak table. Mom had decided that today was a good day to visit her mother, so we trekked over the culvert and through some woods to Grandma’s house. Uncle Lawrence invited us in. “Pull up a chair. We were just having coffee.”

As the youngest, most spoiled child in the family, the “shy” moments in my life were few

and far between, but that day I sat quietly, barely peeking over the table. Oh, I loved Grandma. And my uncles had never been unkind. But a small voice whispered in my ear that day, “Children should be seen, not heard.”

The adults around me talked. Once in a while Grandma would say something in Swedish

and everyone chuckled. I decided to ask Mom to teach me the language when we got home. A clear glass in the center of the table held spoons. A stack of rusks sat on a plate nearby. Uncle Elmer reached for a spoon and stirred a splash of canned Carnation milk into his coffee. The coffee and the cinnamon scent of the crisp, dry rusks made my tummy growl.

“That girl needs a cookie!” Uncle Elmer laughed. My grandma stood and motioned to

1. “Come with me to the pantry.” I followed her hesitantly, not sure of what lay ahead. Mom did not have a pantry. There were metal bins for flour and sugar in a big drawer in our kitchen. Mom stored some things out in the entry we called the porch. When I stepped into my grandmother’s pantry, a fascinating world surrounded me. Light shone in from the opposite end, where a window let in light and gave access to the dining room.

Plates waited on the shelf, ready to be put out on the supper table. Close to the window, dishes in several pretty patterns were stacked next to matching glasses.

A few inches below my eye level a wide board extended a couple feet into the pantry on

all three sides. A blue and white gingham oilcloth covered the surface. On the front, the same material, cut into perfect scallops, was attached with thumb-tacks. Above that work surface, were narrower shelves of varying heights. I wondered how Grandma could reach those top shelves, where glass jars of blue and green sparkled. Some were empty. Some held pickles, navy beans and rice. There were even jars filled with eggs, surrounded by a clear liquid with white stuff on the bottom.

One area held wooden things: cutting boards of every size, wooden bowls and wide

paddles, rolling pins and long-handled spoons. Next to those were shiny metal pans, tins and giant tea kettles with handles of wood.

On the floor, somewhat hidden by the scallops of oilcloth were huge canners, dishpans

and ceramic crocks of every size. There was even a big oval tub made of metal. A handle

extended up on each side. “Too small for a bathtub,” I was thinking when Grandma interrupted my wonderings.

“Here’s the cookie jar. You can put a bunch out on this plate.” I hoped I wouldn’t drop the pretty plate as I carried it to the table.”

Uncle Lawrence’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a good thing you came so we got to have some

cookies!”

Grandma retorted. In Swedish. The uncles laughed. Mom grinned and shook her head.

I never did learn Swedish.

The author’s column appears in a growing number of Midwest newspapers. Kruempel has compiled and published her column stories every year for the last five years. She has also published a historical fiction series, “Promises to Keep.” Her ten books are available on Amazon.

Signed copies may be purchased at the Harrison County Welcome Center. Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.