Miscellaneous Ramblings
"Big Daddy" was my great grandfather on my mother's side (my grandmother's father). I never knew his first wife, who died some years before I was born, but have fond memories of "Big Momma," his second wife.
As a child, I remember long drives on Sunday mornings down to Thomaston, Georgia. Big Daddy and Big Momma lived in a Big House in town. The house was white, multi-storied, and had a number of tenants (who I remember as older folks who only came out at mealtime). Big Daddy always called us his 'girls' (myself and three younger brothers), and would always caution us to stay out of the chicken pen in the backyard, because the rooster would 'get us.'
It wouldn't be long before fantastic aromas would begin floating through the house from the small kitchen in back. The house always seemed dark, and I remember the measured ticking of the mantle clock. We had to be quiet inside, but could run and play in the flower gardens outside while the dads talked about things dads talk about or maybe looked over someone's new 1967 Mustang parked on the street.
When the time had come, we would all gather at a huge table in the main hall and after a prayer from Big Daddy, sit down to enjoy fresh fried chicken, vegetables to no end, and pies and desserts that filled us to the bursting point.
The day was always over too soon, concluding with the long drive home in the back seat, fighting for space with my brothers. Big Daddy died at 94, when I was perhaps in middle school. Big Momma died not too long before or after, I can't remember which.
I'll always have those memories though, of Big Momma helping herself to the crisp crust of my chicken, and the slow ticking of that clock, counting away the minutes and hours of another era.