My mother’s family came from central Georgia. She had six sisters and two brothers. As often as we could, my parents piled us into the family car, a station wagon, to make the five hour trek from Charleston to Milledgeville. It was a pilgrimage of sorts; off to reconnect with family. There is nothing quite like a large family of siblings connecting with their cousins who also have a large family of siblings. Meals were usually had around long tables with benches for seats and foldout card tables for the overflow. Noise, laughter, and at least one argument was always part of our visits. I never cared for the road trip to Georgia or the even longer road trip back, but I always enjoyed my time with my cousins. These were special times, special adventures, special moments.
One special moment was a visit to Uncle Jake’s and Aunt Mildred’s farm. Even though raised in the south by two country born parents, we were pretty much city kids. The idea of having and raising pigs, having a working farm, was quite foreign to me. I recall one trip where the kids went down to see the livestock. The older kids were down there, near the wood-railed fence, looking at the pigs. I wanted to go down there with them. I don’t think I was allowed, so naturally, I tried sneaking down there to be with the big kids, anyway. I got about half way down there when a pig came out of the pen and chased me back up to the house. I tried three more time before giving up. The same pig would come out of the pen and chase me back to the house. I think I spent the rest of that visit on the porch or in the house. I was miserable.
Meals for a large family with a visiting large family were noisy and a flurry of motions in getting everything prepared and set to the table while still hot enough for everyone there. In one of those meals I recall the flurry of motion, emotions, and conversations around the table. It seemed that a torrent had descended on the kitchen and after a brief storm the kitchen was empty again. Empty except for my brother Rob and I. We sat at the table picking at our bowls of oatmeal and staring at the glasses of buttermilk. These were new experiences for us both. We sat there and were told we could not go outside unless we had eaten our food. We were having none of that. We sat and complained as little boys would do.
Our host, Uncle Jake, came into the kitchen. He smiled at us. It was like he wanted to laugh but didn’t. He seemed a very big man to me. He wore a short sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up just a bit, and he wore bib-overalls. He was a working man who understood hard work. I was a little boy who was at war with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of buttermilk.
Uncle Jake sat across the table from my brother Rob and me. I wish I could remember the entire conversation. His words have been lost to years and time. He talked to us like he was one of us. Told us it was good for us. He had us try little bits, then a little more. My brother Rob may have been smarter than me. He ate his up and drank a good portion of his buttermilk then was excused to go outside and play. Uncle Jake was exceedingly patient with me. With his encouragement, I finally finished my oatmeal. He let me go without finishing the buttermilk. I complained rather sadly at how it tasted like it was bad. I remember I felt like I finally escaped when he said I could go. I do not think I even said thank you. I ran from the table as quickly as I could and joined the kids outside.
I do not remember the rest of that day or that weekend. It was so long ago and blended into other memories. What I do remember the most was my Uncle Jake taking a moment to spend time with me to ensure I got enough to eat. I remember his face and how he genuinely cared. To this day I still do not much care for buttermilk, but I do owe and credit my fondness for oatmeal to my Uncle Jake who took the time to be with his baby sister-in-law’s little boy and helped him eat his first bowl of oatmeal. There were other trips, other visits, but none that I remember more than this one. I wish I knew him better and had other memories I could pull up. But, this is a good one. I am glad he took the time with me, helping me get through a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of buttermilk.
Thank you so very much for sharing your memory! WOW! Growing up in our family was indeed an unforgettable experience! With my 5 brothers and 3 sisters we really did have a house full when Aunt Reba and Uncle Bill came to visit with your bunch. I don’t remember this exact time that you came or the way your learned to eat oatmeal, but, I do remember many, many pots of oatmeal that my mother (your Aunt Mildred) cooked! And, there was always a huge pan of biscuits to go with them.
What I love most about your story is a glance of my daddy (your Uncle Jake). I never did get to know him as well as I would have liked. He died at the very young age of 50; when I was only 19. By trade, my daddy was a truck driver and was away from home all week and only home on weekends. I was the 4th child (and 3rd girl) of our family. My brother Billy (3rd child) and I worked during those weekends with daddy in the gardens and fields. We did all of the ‘outside’ work. Yes, we fed the pigs! I guess I was the ‘other boy’ at that point. The youngest 4 siblings are all boys, but they came along after Billy and I were teenagers.
I really appreciate the way you described my daddy. He was, in fact, a very hard working man. I think what I learned from him that has stayed with me all these years is how to ‘keep on keeping on’ and ‘to never give up.’ I must have got my ‘I can do this’ attitude from him.
You must pile up your kids in the family car and head to middle Georgia again. We have a Smith-Snow Family Reunion every year in September here in Milledgeville. Can’t promise there won’t be any pigs that will chase you though! Just kidding. Don’t think any of the 9 of us have any pigs. 🙂
Again, thank you for sharing such precious memories. Aunt Reba and Uncle Bill were very special to me.
Your cousin,
Janie (Smith) Dunn