Graham Crackers & Coffee
Mildred Elizabeth Graham Easton was my maternal grandmother. I called her simply, “Grandma.” No fancy Y2K grandma names, just Grandma. While writing about fascinating people I’ve encountered, the ordinary folks in my life might get overlooked. So while making this scrumptious treat tonight - graham crackers and coffee - I started to think about this lady who shaped a lot of who I am, though hers was not a remarkable life by the world’s standards.
I was her first grandchild (the eldest child of an eldest and naughty child - she ran away and married my dad at 17) and I always felt loved and special in her home. She often asked me if I wanted graham crackers and coffee for breakfast, which I always did. Graham crackers, that is, smothered with a thick layer of margarine, and black coffee. How anyone thought it was a good idea to give small children coffee I’ll never know, but a lot of unhealthy things were indulged in back then (cigarettes, even while pregnant, Crisco, Spam, ew). I would climb up onto a bar stool in her 1960s kitchen, while she brewed the coffee. I loved the smell of it and felt like a big girl with my own cup. I loved the challenge of dipping the cracker for just the right amount of time or else it would break and drop in. I would tell her if this happened, and she would fetch me a spoon so I could fish it out. Too soggy and it wasn’t quite right, but I ate it anyway. At the end, there was a lukewarm cup of weak brew with an oil slick on the top. It’s such a fond memory, that I make it occasionally for a snack. (And, side note… “Bullet-proof” coffee - a cup-a-joe with a slab of butter in it - became a big thing about 10 years ago - Grandma was ahead of her time, though she would have promoted Blue Bonnet.)
She introduced me to sewing, which I have always loved. She had one of those machines with a foot treadle that you pumped with your feet to advance the needle. She’d pull me up on her lap and I remember bobbing up and down to the time of the machine. The machine was in her bedroom and we would go back there and make something.
She was a tall slender woman with thin white hair. She had been an athlete in her younger years. At some point she developed diabetes and her vigor and strength declined, and she died much too young. But in my early years she was all energy. If she and I were not sewing, she was cooking something delicious for a crowd. Every time we were there, there seemed to be many others as well, my three uncles, their friends, other relatives, my family. My other grandmother, “Granny,” was widowed soon after they became grandparents, and my dad was her only child. Grandma welcomed Granny to every family gathering and they were great friends. Her home was the place everyone came to I guess for holidays or after my uncle’s baseball games.
Mildred and Gladys
She was also a knowledgeable gardener. The first thing we did upon arrival was get “the tour.” She would walk us around her house and talk about all the different flowers that were blooming by name. I learned to identify hydrangea (which she pronounced, “high-gerania”), daisies, daffodils, lilacs (pronounced, “lah-lox”), dogwoods, pansies, snapdragons (she always showed me how they could open their mouths if you squeezed them just right), azaleas, roses, marigolds, honeysuckle, among many others. She always let me pick something.
Her house sat on a hill and seemed enormous to me, under many spreading hardwoods somewhere between suburban and rural Maryland. Many cool fall Sundays were spent raking leaves into a huge pile that we were always encouraged to jump in, followed by a fire. Sledding down their hill was always a treat; it seemed to snow more often then. In hindsight, and as a custom home-builder, their house was the strangest floor plan ever. The main entrance was on the lower level, with a formal living room (or office?) on one side of an entry hall, and a family room with a fireplace on the other. A staircase was at the back of the hall; beyond that was a door to a true basement - a windowless damp space that housed their washer and dryer, a model train set-up, and a chest freezer. Up the stairs on the top level were the kitchen, living room, dining room, three bedrooms and a bath. The door everyone used was in the kitchen and went out to the driveway and their backyard. We spent almost all our time on this level.
But the bottom level was kind of magical. Grandma kept violets under black lights in the formal room to the one side of the entry hall. It seemed she could grow anything. There was a piano in the family room, and the fireplace had a brick hearth that spanned the room. I often went down there with my siblings and we pretended it was our stage. We banged on the piano like we knew what we were doing, and I fantasized about being able to crack the code of the black dots and lines on the sheets of music. I don’t know if I ever heard anyone legitimately play that piano. I have a vague memory of a fabulous Christmas party in this room with a huge tree, lots of loud people, music, grown-up drinks, and the ever-present fog of cigarette smoke.
A half wall was at the top of the stairs between the stairwell and the living room. A built-in bookcase filled this half wall, and Grandma had a full set of encyclopedias. Including the Childcraft set! We didn’t have many (any?) books at my house, so it was a big treat to crack open those books and pretend to be able to read and understand. The pictures were of course fascinating. I can remember asking to take a book home and being denied. They probably wanted to keep this treasured set whole, purchased, no doubt, from a door-to-door salesman. As was their Electrolux vacuum cleaner.
Grandma loved to have her back scratched and after she worked like a dog cooking for and cleaning up after us, she would retire to her recliner and sometimes lean forward. That was my cue to climb in behind her and scratch away. She sometimes gave me money for that.
My grandfather, Pop-pop, called her, “Mil” or “Millie.” He served as a tail-gunner on a B-17 during WWII, surviving 13 combat missions over Germany. His plane went down over occupied France on January 21, 1945, and he was MIA for a few weeks after bailing out at 10,000 ft. He had severe injuries to his hands, for which he was awarded a Purple Heart. Surely that was a terrible time for this young couple. They were only 26 years old and had two babies. My mom has his diary; he wrote in it almost every day and recorded amazing stories of his time in Europe. But the most endearing thing to read was his desire and longing for his “Darling,” his “Sweetheart,” his “Lovely,” his “Honey,” his “Dearest Mil.”
As a child, you never ponder the pain the adults in your life might be enduring. Grandma and Pop-pop had a lot of challenges in their lives, there was a lot of anger in their home, their children gave them heartache, they were sick with heart disease and diabetes, and died before they reached 75. But I loved being there, feeling special, and doted on. Somehow you can still feel the love, even amid dysfunction.
I believe my love for nature, sewing, and hosting came from her. I’ve got her shape and athleticism. My hair is pretty white like hers. And I will say that I love to have my back scratched, too.