The Gingerbread Man
I can still remember vividly the incredible smell of plump raisins buried in the belly of my Godfather's gingerbread muffins. These amazing muffins were baked in his piping hot wood stove oven in a tiny, very cluttered kitchen filled top to bottom with newspapers, boxes, and knick-knacks.
Saturdays at my Godfather's house were very special. The day started early as I walked the half-mile down the quiet country road, lined on each side with dense woods and an occasional open field filled with wildflowers. When I arrived at his house, he would be out in the yard chopping wood for the stove, no matter what season.
I would sit on the wooden steps just outside the kitchen, humming as he chopped and stacked one piece of wood after another – enough to last for a few days. I would routinely grab the smallest bucket of wood, take it inside and set it next to the stove. Then I watched as Godfather, so skillfully, grabbed the coiled handle of the stove lid lifter. I worried that he might burn himself, but he never did. He would use his shirt or a dishtowel and grab it so fast I barely saw the lid come off the stove. From my small bucket, he would push in one piece of kindling after another until the stove was good and hot.
Photo by Jens Johnsson on Unsplash
All during this prep time, I really don’t remember Godfather saying much – he wasn’t a talker, just a worker. He was always busy doing something – all day long. He would plow the yard, chop ice from a big block on the porch that he kept in an old icebox, sitting on a table almost hidden amongst a hodgepodge of tools, old chairs, fishing poles, boxes, and bags.
Although he was, generally, a loner, almost reclusive at times, he genuinely seemed to enjoy my company. I knew not to get underfoot or be too chatty. I also knew the routine and stuck to it religiously. Our time together was simply magical – filled with familiar sounds and smells of our routine – wood chopping, ice chips flying against the ice bucket, banging pots and pans, wind whooshing up through the chimney, smoke from the wood burning and crackling in the stove. It was all warm and wonderful, and the best was yet to come.
To most people in our community, my Godfather, "Uncle Arthur", was one of those "Boo Radley" kinda characters from the story "To Kill a Mockingbird". To them, he was an oddball of sorts, interacting with people in the neighborhood only on an "as needed" basis. Stories told around town about "Uncle Arthur" had him drowning cats and shooting dogs who wandered accidentally, or on purpose, through his property. Just short of drowning or shooting, he was known to chase neighborhood children off in terror if caught taking a shortcut across his prized land. I did witness that a time or two, or more.
Godfather was not an educated man, but he was good at so many things. Without even a high school education, he never had any trouble keeping his home, his truck, his tools, or food on his table. He hunted whenever the season allowed him to do so and grew all kinds of vegetables in his half-acre garden. Generously, he shared what he had with his sisters and with my family as well.
My Daddy was a singer and was always on the road, traveling most of the year. In his absence, it was "Uncle Arthur" who took us to the doctor, to the movies, or anywhere else we needed to go by car. He was a father figure all my life. He was not a church going man, but despite his reputation of perhaps being a little odd, he was a very kind man. He only wore bib overalls, a long-sleeved shirt, a cap, and boots. I never saw him in anything else. He was always clean, but sometimes a bit wrinkled.
Right next to his kitchen was a big tin tub where he apparently bathed – drawing water from the pump right next to the back porch, heating it to a comfortable temperature at the end of a hard-working day.
Photo by Alexander Zvir from Pexels
Music at his humble abode came from the birds chirping happily just outside the kitchen window where they lived. My memory might be fuzzy, but it seems that the birds never left – they lived outside that window all year long, serenading us as we made happy memories year after year in that kitchen.
My visits were confined mostly to the kitchen and the back porch, as it was almost impossible to maneuver through the rest of the house. It was apparent that at one time, the house was really lived in. The room where the tin tub sat had remnants of what appeared to be a living room – there sat a couch, a curio cabinet, and lamps that looked like they had been selected by someone with a softer touch.
I had heard stories that "Uncle Arthur" had once had a wife, but grown folks never talked about those kinds of things in front of us children. For me, despite his being known in the neighborhood as peculiar and somewhat distant, "Uncle Arthur" was one of the most loving and thoughtful men in my world.
Back in the toasty warm kitchen, anticipating the highlight of my Saturday with "Uncle Arthur", I waited for the real magic to begin. With the stove nice and hot, the ice chips ready for our glasses of sweet lemonade, the real joy for me and my Godfather's afternoons together began.
Under the instruction of the master gingerbread maker, I gathered the sugar, molasses, spices, flour, baking soda, milk, and eggs. He would bring the stove to just the right oven temperature – adjusting each piece of wood left, right, up, or down, as if adjusting the thermostat on a modern-day heater. How he got that oven temperature just right is still a mystery to me. It was like magic.
Photo by Julia Zolotova from Pexels
As he poured all the ingredients together in his giant yellow porcelain-mixing bowl, each addition of an ingredient released level upon level of incredible aromas for the best gingerbread in the making.
Individually and collectively, I could smell the molasses, ginger, cloves, and cinnamon. But the very last ingredient added was the piece de resistance! The raisins!! "Uncle Arthur" soaked his raisins while mixing together all the other ingredients. As he added the raisins, they seemed to float endlessly down into the yellow speckled mixing bowl. Their smell was so incredible that I believe he soaked them in some magic potion – perhaps some of that dandelion wine he used to make and bury in the ground next to the back porch. The finished product was an unbelievable and indescribable treat.
My magical Saturdays with my Godfather continued until I turned eighteen and went away to college in 1965. I truly missed those magical moments with a man who didn’t have to say that he loved me – he showed me, my whole life. And even when I went away to college, I couldn’t wait to receive my magically delicious care packages from “Uncle Arthur” – seemingly still warm from that wood stove oven in my Godfather’s kitchen – instant love from the Gingerbread Man.
I got married, moved away, had children, and started a new life. My Godfather never got to know my children and they, sadly, missed out on being with someone who could have taught them so much.
When "Uncle Arthur" died, I was unable to go home to his funeral, and I anguished at not being able to see him once again, even if it was just his lifeless body. I decided that, even though he was gone, I would write him a letter from my heart. I asked that it be read to him at his funeral in my absence:
“Dearest Uncle Arthur,
I probably never thanked you for all the wonderful moments we spent together cooking in your kitchen or sitting on your back porch. Nothing can ever replace the joy I found in that. In Daddy’s absence, you stepped in and took such good care of us, making sure we had whatever we needed.
To this day, I can still scale and clean a fish better than anybody because you taught me well. It was never my favorite thing to do, so I thank God that I rarely have to do that anymore. But thanks to you, if I must, I can. I have so many wonderful memories associated with the time spent with you.
I know that God has a very special place for you in heaven – probably in a quiet place by the river where you can sit for as long as you want to -- you always loved to do that with a fishing pole in your hand.
I will carry the sweet, sweet memories and love, you so unselfishly gave me, in my heart for the rest of this life – until we can see each other again, hopefully sitting around the stove waiting for a batch of your magical gingerbread treat."
With love that stretches far beyond the grave – “Winnie”
