Pickled Green Tomatoes
Visiting with my mother has changed over the past ten years. During that stretch, I watched her mental powers steadily decline. These days, I visit her at her house two or three times a week in the afternoons. We usually chat for a couple of hours then I head back home. My younger sister stays with her full time, which I’m sure is quite a drag sometimes.
My mother especially has trouble with knowing the present. Days of the week, years, ages, relations and friends outside her immediate children are all difficult for her to remember. When my father died this past January, she lived in a state of denial for several months. Back then, she would stare at the picture shrine dedicated to my pop set up across the room from her recliner and wonder aloud where he was. She figured he was outside tinkering in the yard and would be in soon. When I’d tell her that he’d passed away in January, she would begin crying-grieving a profound loss. This scene played out on almost a daily basis for months. Her grief was drawn-forth as if it was the first day after his passing every day.
She’s gradually come to accept that her husband of 62 years has passed away from her. She told me the other day that it seems like he’s been gone for such a long, long time. I agreed with her and we both became teary-eyed.
Through her mental haze, there are moments of supreme clarity-memories of times long ago. She can’t attach dates to most events, but her recall of the way things used to be remains clear.
Earlier this week, we were sitting chatting like we always do-talking about gardens and canning. “Are you and Jackie canning any tomatoes this year?”
“Not yet, but I suspect we will.” I’ve answered this question many times this summer.
“My ma used to can all kinds of food for us.” She went on to tell me about how her mom and dad used to put up vegetables from the massive garden so that they’d be able to be fed through the harsh Upstate New York winter. Beans, tomatoes, squash, and pickles were all quite popular. She went on to tell me that her family especially enjoyed pickled green tomatoes.
I had never heard of such pickles before, so I asked her for details. Basically, you take green tomatoes, slice them wedges, and pickle them according to the secret family recipe. I asked her if she still had the recipe, and she said she had it around somewhere.
I learned that my grandfather would go to the store and buy gallons or even barrels of vinegar to use in pickling. Once the pickles were made, everyone always wanted some at dinner. She said that their food was generally boring and repetitive, but the green tomato pickles really livened up meals and were hands down the family favorite.
Sometimes we talk about her early schooling and teaching career. Most recently, she told me her father’s connection with the local public school and how it affected her. Her father was on the board of the local public school system. One of his jobs was to drive out every morning and pick up the teacher and bring her to school. This daily run allowed my mother to hitch a ride to the public school and her sister to get dropped off at the local Catholic school (I believe). Teachers weren’t paid much back then, but they never had to provide their own transportation to my grandfather’s school.
My mother has been thinking a lot about her own mother lately. One of her stories was quite remarkable. I was telling my mother about all the catnip I just picked and how it could be used to make a tea that would help get rid of headaches and help you sleep. My mother nodded her head and began telling me about how her mother used to make all kinds of teas for all kinds of conditions and ailments. She said that her mom was always giving them nasty tasting teas to cure their colds and wounds. They all dreaded the teas.
It seems that my grandmother was known as the local medicine lady as well. Before she had children, she had been a school teacher in the area, so everyone had grown to know her and trust her. Plus, she could read and write. If someone was complaining of one ailment or another, they would invariably be told to “…just go see Dorrie Devins. She’ll fix ya up.” My mom said that the locals all called her “Dorrie.” It was their way of saying her proper name, “Dora.” They’d come by the house and ask her for advice about whatever condition they had, and Dorrie would consult her medicine book. This was a book that was handwritten and passed down from generation to generation. My mother says that she has no idea what happened to the book, but she imagines the family just left it behind when they sold the farmhouse since all of them had such horrible memories of those teas.
Many people would come by the farmhouse to get Dorrie to help them with their taxes. With the passage of the 16th Amendment in 1913, suddenly poor, illiterate farmers were faced with filling out tax forms. Since Dorrie was so smart and could read, they would ask her to straighten out their taxes. My mom said she always left the room, because these farmers would be in the dining room with all of the personal business papers spread out. The people were always grateful that Dorrie had made it all right.
Several times during her retelling of the story, my mother would get quite emotional and begin to cry. She repeated over and over how her mother would help anyone who came by and “…never charged anyone a cent.” Her mother was the kindest person she ever knew.
So between my grandfather single-handedly making public school education work and my grandmother healing the sick and tending to others’ businesses, I had two incredible grandparents.
My mother especially has trouble with knowing the present. Days of the week, years, ages, relations and friends outside her immediate children are all difficult for her to remember. When my father died this past January, she lived in a state of denial for several months. Back then, she would stare at the picture shrine dedicated to my pop set up across the room from her recliner and wonder aloud where he was. She figured he was outside tinkering in the yard and would be in soon. When I’d tell her that he’d passed away in January, she would begin crying-grieving a profound loss. This scene played out on almost a daily basis for months. Her grief was drawn-forth as if it was the first day after his passing every day.
She’s gradually come to accept that her husband of 62 years has passed away from her. She told me the other day that it seems like he’s been gone for such a long, long time. I agreed with her and we both became teary-eyed.
Through her mental haze, there are moments of supreme clarity-memories of times long ago. She can’t attach dates to most events, but her recall of the way things used to be remains clear.
Earlier this week, we were sitting chatting like we always do-talking about gardens and canning. “Are you and Jackie canning any tomatoes this year?”
“Not yet, but I suspect we will.” I’ve answered this question many times this summer.
“My ma used to can all kinds of food for us.” She went on to tell me about how her mom and dad used to put up vegetables from the massive garden so that they’d be able to be fed through the harsh Upstate New York winter. Beans, tomatoes, squash, and pickles were all quite popular. She went on to tell me that her family especially enjoyed pickled green tomatoes.
I had never heard of such pickles before, so I asked her for details. Basically, you take green tomatoes, slice them wedges, and pickle them according to the secret family recipe. I asked her if she still had the recipe, and she said she had it around somewhere.
I learned that my grandfather would go to the store and buy gallons or even barrels of vinegar to use in pickling. Once the pickles were made, everyone always wanted some at dinner. She said that their food was generally boring and repetitive, but the green tomato pickles really livened up meals and were hands down the family favorite.
Sometimes we talk about her early schooling and teaching career. Most recently, she told me her father’s connection with the local public school and how it affected her. Her father was on the board of the local public school system. One of his jobs was to drive out every morning and pick up the teacher and bring her to school. This daily run allowed my mother to hitch a ride to the public school and her sister to get dropped off at the local Catholic school (I believe). Teachers weren’t paid much back then, but they never had to provide their own transportation to my grandfather’s school.
My mother has been thinking a lot about her own mother lately. One of her stories was quite remarkable. I was telling my mother about all the catnip I just picked and how it could be used to make a tea that would help get rid of headaches and help you sleep. My mother nodded her head and began telling me about how her mother used to make all kinds of teas for all kinds of conditions and ailments. She said that her mom was always giving them nasty tasting teas to cure their colds and wounds. They all dreaded the teas.
It seems that my grandmother was known as the local medicine lady as well. Before she had children, she had been a school teacher in the area, so everyone had grown to know her and trust her. Plus, she could read and write. If someone was complaining of one ailment or another, they would invariably be told to “…just go see Dorrie Devins. She’ll fix ya up.” My mom said that the locals all called her “Dorrie.” It was their way of saying her proper name, “Dora.” They’d come by the house and ask her for advice about whatever condition they had, and Dorrie would consult her medicine book. This was a book that was handwritten and passed down from generation to generation. My mother says that she has no idea what happened to the book, but she imagines the family just left it behind when they sold the farmhouse since all of them had such horrible memories of those teas.
Many people would come by the farmhouse to get Dorrie to help them with their taxes. With the passage of the 16th Amendment in 1913, suddenly poor, illiterate farmers were faced with filling out tax forms. Since Dorrie was so smart and could read, they would ask her to straighten out their taxes. My mom said she always left the room, because these farmers would be in the dining room with all of the personal business papers spread out. The people were always grateful that Dorrie had made it all right.
Several times during her retelling of the story, my mother would get quite emotional and begin to cry. She repeated over and over how her mother would help anyone who came by and “…never charged anyone a cent.” Her mother was the kindest person she ever knew.
So between my grandfather single-handedly making public school education work and my grandmother healing the sick and tending to others’ businesses, I had two incredible grandparents.
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