| NEXT TO GODLINESS by Jim Deaton |
| Every morning about eight o’clock Mr. Pelgrin arrives to open his store. He is an industrious sort, a hard worker, but he bares a striking resemblence to comedian Ernie Kovacs. I keep waiting for the punch line that never comes. He opens the door and hurries inside, I assume to turn off the alarm. Then, more relaxed, he gets himself and his store ready to meet the big old world. He is one of the very few vendors in town that still put merchandise in front of the store, on the sidewalk. “So what if a kid steals an apple? It is a bigger deal to him than it is to me. It’s just a part of being here,” Mr. Pelgrin says. He has a real cavalier attitude about things. The women in town love going to his store. It seems like he has always been there and always will be. 
Grandma gives me a couple dollars, “Run down to Mr. Pelgrin’s and get me a half dozen tomatoes.” I'm sure the store has a name but we just think of it as “Mr. Pelgrin’s”. Mr. Pelgrin’s store does not have cigarettes or “girlie” magazines, so mothers don't worry about their children going there. Moreover, Mr. Pelgrin knows everybody by their first name or however they like to be called. One fall day, when Grandma is making bread and butter pickles, she has Mr. Pelgrin order a bunch of cucumbers for her. Huffing and puffing, he brings an overflowing basket of produce out to me and my best friend, Putt (real name Jeremy). “Can you handle it all right?” asks Mr. Pelgrin. “Yeah, there’s two of us” I tell him. We each grab a handle and lumber down the sidewalk. The basket is heavy but we, unrehearsed, act like it’s not. “Tell your grandmother hello and good luck,” says the old man. He is probably not that old but when you are eleven, fifty seems ancient. Grandma has the kitchen all ready with the quart jars and lids waiting. The big canner, filled with hot water, is on the stove. The jars are all sparkling and sterilized to within an inch of their lives. Grandma is a real stickler about clean containers. “No nicks. If the jars aren’t smooth and clean, you won’t get a good seal” she says — and practices. Those jars are washed twice in soapy water; rinsed, boiled, drained — a germ could not survive grandma’s ritual. I especially like when she puts up tomato juice for the winter. It is great in January or February to have tomato foodstuff that tastes fresh. Of course, that is an all day job. She boils tomatoes, puts them in the ricer and gets all the juice out of them, fills the jars, adds salt (to help preserve it), screws the lids on tight and then puts the jars in the canner and boils them for an hour or so. She cans all sorts of vegetables — corn, potatoes, beans, tomatoes, even okra. All the rest of the day you can hear the “ping” sound as they seal. Anything that does not seal right has to be used up right away.  No matter that you can find tin cans of tomatoes on sale at the store three for a dollar. Grandma says, “It’s not the same. May cost a little more to buy a bunch of stuff now, but it won’t cost anything this winter, and besides, it tastes better.” I especially like Grandma’s jams and jellies, but for those, she uses liquid paraffin to seal the jars. We kids are not allowed near it while it is hot. That is as good a reason as I have heard for not helping. We look on canning as a kind of treat, but when Grandma was a child, you either canned food in the summer and fall, or did without in the winter. Old habits die hard. I can’t imagine Grandma as a child, although I’m sure she was at some point. Nobody is always seventy years old, yet I don’t think of her as ever being young. I just don’t see it. Grandma is, overall, a good cook, but the woman just cannot fry pork chops. They make a “clink” sound when they hit the plate. She has a rule about cooking — whoever complains has to make dinner until the next person makes a fuss. Thus most dinner comments are followed with, “…but that’s just the way I like it.” Grandma is somewhat particular about where things go. God forbid you don’t put the clean towels in the hall closet. It may not be what you would pick for your first choice, but Grandma has a designated place for everything. When she is composing her shopping list and is low or out of something, she has only one place to look. If you neglect to put something in its proper place, there’s hell to pay. With Grandma, put it back where you got it, or leave it the way you found it. She is not a strict disciplinarian; she just does not enjoy the hunt the way she once did. Miss Pollard comes in, usually on Wednesday or Thursday, to help Grandma with the “deep cleaning”. They wash all the quilts and comforters, clean the oven, dust under things and all the other stuff Grandma has trouble with. Grandma keeps a clean house. She likes it to be “really clean”. Miss Pollard is from Stamping Ground, Kentucky, that she calls her old “stomping ground”. She is younger than Grandma, but they have lot of the same stories. Miss Pollard brings a six-pack of Wiedemann or Hudepohl beer when she comes. There is something amusing about two older women sitting around the kitchen table after their work is complete, drinking beer from a bottle. The beer is not an incentive; it is a reward for a job well done. My mom passed away when I was a year old and I have never met my dad. I have always lived with Grandma Falley. Sometimes the things she says or has me do, don’t make much sense to me. Brush your teeth, wash your face — there is some logic to it. But don’t talk to strangers; never put big bills in your wallet? Someday, I guess it will make sense. I still do as she says, but darned if I know why. It seems important to her and that is all I need to know. I think Grandma has a boyfriend. She gets all gussied up when Fred Shaffer comes around, trying to look her best. I don’t begrudge Grandma having her fun. And though she never speaks much about Mr. Shaffer, you would have to be blind not to see she has set her cap for him. I guess older people get tired of being alone. Grandpa died fifteen years ago and Grandma has been on her own since then. Apparently, when she was younger, she was quite a looker. She is not unattractive now — nobody runs away screaming — but men are not wrecking their cars staring at her. Just good old Mr. Shaffer, whose wife passed away ten years ago. When two older people “date”, you are supposed to say, “Aren’t they cute?” But Grandma and Mr. Shaffer really do look good together. Maybe they feel relaxed around each other. Grandma seems happier, and that is enough for me.
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Copyright by
Jim Deaton
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