biscuits and memories

Just thinking of my Grandpa Chrisner makes me smile.  He died when I was 18 years old, and after 23 years I can still see the sparkle in his eyes when he's about to pull one over on you.  I can still hear his raspy voice and the way he would quietly smack his lips two times before he commenced to tellin' a story.  I can still see his grin when his family would tease him about his infatuation with Dolly Parton. I remember the utter freedom I always felt exploring his overgrown backyard with my Texas cousins. I remember the awe I felt at Grandpa's generosity when he would insist my Dad take the fifty to go down and buy 5 hamburgers, knowing he'd refuse the change.

Every morning Grandpa would make biscuits to go with breakfast.  He'd always be sure to make too many so there would be lots left over.  Then, all day long we'd come in from playing in the hot Texas sun and eat a cold biscuit with the peanut butter and syrup he'd mixed up just for us.  There's no better way to eat a biscuit.

The older I get, the more my Dad reminds me of Grandpa.    He has the same crazy, fly-away eyebrows his father did.  And, just like his Dad, he loves to fill your belly or stock your fridge.  He listens to and enjoys Sloane in the same way his father listened to all of us.  Like my grandpa, he gets a lot of pleasure in watching his family having fun.

Last Saturday morning when I woke up, Jeffrey told me he had breakfast ready for me.

It was cold biscuits with peanut butter and syrup. 

My husband never met my Grandpa, but but he knows my Dad and he knows the stories.  And he loves me the same way: with a mixture of care-taking and doting and sit-back-and-watch-her-go pride.  I am a woman surrounded past and present by wonderful men.  I've been so blessed.

Grandpa and Grandma Chrisner in the early 1930s.