Coconut Cake
Rural Louisiana. A road covered overhead by browning trees and riddled with potholes. The car hums along, shaking and rattling with each bump. We pass the house with the golden horse statues. We’re close. We pass the two trailer parks. Almost there. Finally we roll past the empty lots overgrown with kudzu. We’ve arrived, my grandparents’ house. The hydrangeas greet me, their familiar white leaves dancing like angels in the afternoon wind. They rarely bloom this long, but Papa pays special attention to his flowers. Smoke billows from the chimney, likely the first fire of fall.
I leap out of the car, but before I reach them, I’m lovingly attacked by Sassafras and Bandit, barking excitedly. I embrace my grandmother’s five foot frame; she smells like coconut cake. My favorite. I hug Papa too, his worn hands leathery and covered in paint. The kitchen is adorned with pumpkins and other fall decorations, some still in Hobby Lobby shopping bags waiting to be put out until Thanksgiving Day. That’s my job. It’s small, but anything to help her. I unload our luggage as my brother digs into the large pan of “trash” (chex mix, pretzels, crackers, seasoning, nuts, etc.) on the counter. While they eat the “trash”, I wait my turn then dig through for the few peanuts I can find.
Spence leaves tomorrow to go camping with the boy cousins. I’ll miss him, but brothers can be annoying. The five hour car ride really tested my patience. Now, I’m just happy for the alone time with her. I’m the oldest grandchild and only girl; I like to think that makes me special.
The next morning I wake up to the smell of deer sausage and bacon, real bacon, not the turkey kind my mom microwaves. She greets me while she flips pancakes and states how much of a mess my hair is. If that were my mom, I would’ve talked back already. But it’s not. It’s Memaw, and I’m just content to spend a week in her shadow. We plan out our day over breakfast--church luncheon, the Dollar General, then home.
We pull up to my uncle’s Baptist church. Spence calls his sermons, traditionally much longer than our Methodist ones, the “long speeches.” I wonder if he’ll speak today. We enter the building each with a casserole under our arms, and we’re greeted by a chorus of “Becky, Is this Josie?” I had to put my casserole down before hugging the stampede of grandmas; it was burning my arm. Memaw, though, was already addressing the group about her “Mississippi grandkids,” beaming while informing them of my grades and Spence’s athletics. I left the luncheon full and mentally exhausted. Grandmothers ask more questions than the CIA.
She takes a nap when we get back from Dollar General. It’s been a long day and rough on her arthritis. I join Papa in the shop to paint with him, and I pick out a little ceramic princess from his box of figurines. He works on his landscape while I work on my princess. I give her auburn hair, like mine. I watch his strokes of paint. They’re graceful and silent, like him. I watch quietly, trying to imitate how he paints. I interrupt a few times, struggling to figure out what color my princess’s dress should be. We settle on yellow.
I rush through the back door to show Memaw my princess as soon as it’s partly dry. I’m so proud. The slamming of the back door wakes her up as I run in. I shove my masterpiece in her face and proclaim, “Look, Memaw, it’s for you!” She puts my princess on the kitchen counter next to the coconut cake, a place of honor. It’s definitely fit for royalty.
We sit down on the couch under one of her mother’s quilts, a mosaic of pastels and flowers, and we watch westerns. Soon, I’m falling asleep listening to the gunshots of Bonanza, the hooves of their horses carrying me away. Quietly, I hear her whisper, “I’m glad you’re here.” I’m glad I’m here too.