By Sharon Romine
They weren’t really. She never even wore them, but only held them in trust until I turned sixteen, at which time she was to give them to me. They were given to me by Mrs. Stumps, an elderly lady, that the neighborhood took turns caring for.
Mrs. Stumps was in her eighties and couldn’t get around much, and if she had family they must have lived far away, because I don’t remember anyone calling on her. What I do remember, though, is that every lunch and sometimes dinner, my Grandma would fix an extra plate and one of us, usually me, would take it over to Mrs. Stumps and sit with her as she ate.
The whole neighborhood took part in her care. It wasn’t something talked about or unusual. That was just the way it was done back then. Aunt Mary, next door would fix her breakfast, Granny Smith, across the way, would come over and feed her chickens and cats and even Grandpa would help out when the yard needed mowing or the house needed work.
I recall walking around her yard to the back door that was always left unlocked, because she usually wasn’t able to get up and come let you in. Walking through the house I’d make my way to the back where her small bedroom was.
Images of her room are still strong with me, even now, although I couldn’t have been more than about twelve or thirteen at the time she died. The combined odors of lavender and aged stuffiness mixed to create a rich almost suffocating aroma.
There she’d lie, huddled beneath thick homemade quilts, lost within their folds. Frilly drapes at her window blocked the bright Florida sunlight, making the room dark, and in the corner, a small TV droned in low tones with “Days of our lives” or some other soap characters moving about.
Rising from the foil-covered plate in my hand, the odor of garden fresh peas, corn and perhaps a slab of pork that had been cut into tiny pieces, would mix together and drift about the small room.
Mrs. Stumps words were almost always the same as she’d push herself up on her pillows to get ready to eat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and your Granny,” she’d say. Our answer of “We love to do it, it gives us an excuse to come see you,” came automatically.
A lot of times, she’d have me pull a book down and I’d sit and read out loud while she ate. Other times, she’d talk in-between bites about long ago, when she was young. One of the stories she told was of the day her fiance gave her the earrings. It was one of my favorite stories and perhaps that’s why she wanted me to have them.
She’d have me get her tin down and as she held the tiny mine-cut diamonds in her hand, she told the story of a young man so infatuated with her beauty that he was continually getting her in trouble with her Dad. Of how her heart broke when she had to give back the earrings because they weren’t married, yet, and her Dad said it wasn’t “fittin’”.
It’s been almost forty years since I sat and listened to her stories, and the earrings that she wore on her wedding day in the 1800’s have become a tradition in ours in the 90’s. Four brides have worn them as they’ve said their vows, and by the time you read this, it will be five... This weekend my oldest son will be married and as he takes Maria’s hands in his and vows to love and cherish her for the rest of his life... their tiny twinkle will barely be noticed. But, there, in the sparkle of their faucets are the eyes of a tiny wrinkled woman, who watches from somewhere and claps her hands in glee.
Published U.S. Legacies July 2003
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