The recent cold weather made me melancholy as I sat and pondered yesteryears. It made me remember the days of cold winter that I spent with my grandmother and grandaddy in Montgomery County.
You hear people talk about living in the country; well, this was living in the country. The property sat right on the Montgomery County and Attala County line. The old barn, housing the old Guernsey milk cow, sat straddle the two county lines.
The old house sat back off the ruddy red clay dirt road, which was only protected by a load of limestone rocks that had long been embedded into the structure of the not so traveled road. When it rained, it sometimes turned into red clay dirt ruts that were difficult to maneuver. The only regular business that traveled this old road was the daily mailman and the old rolling store once a week.
The old clapboard house sat a way off the road on a small rise surrounded by all the outbuildings, the old smoke house, the barn, the wellhouse, and the “outside john.”
The long front porch, running the entire width of the house, held several benches, straight chairs, rockers and the little table that held the old community water bucket and dipper. My grandaddy sat there for many hours whittling his little thingamajigs.
During the coldest part of the winter season there was always a roaring fire in the old stone and brick fireplace in the “front room” (bedroom), as this was the only source of heat for the entire house except for the old black wood stove in the back kitchen area. My grandaddy aways sat on the right side of the fire hearth, my grandmother in the front in her rocker and my little Granny Key on the left side in a small rocking chair that just fit her tiny frame.
The one next to the fire would always be warm on one side, but slightly frigid on all other sides. But the kitchen was always warm and cozy. The old wood stove had a small door on the right that held the small pieces of wood that kept the heat just right for making grandmother’s big old buttermilk biscuits.
I could always stay quite warm sleeping at night as one or two or three of her handmade quilts covered me and were so heavy I could barely turn over in the bed. I am blessed to have one of her quilts on one of my beds today.
The main shortcoming about the old house, in my opinion, was the little outhouse down the hill from the back door. Have you ever run the path to one of these little houses in 20-degree weather? It’s no stroll in the park, I assure you.
We took a trip back to the old homeplace several years ago, and all that is standing is the old brick and stone chimney that my grandaddy had built so many years ago and remnants of the old barn, and so, so many of the ghosts of some of the best times of my young life.
This is my grandmother’s biscuit recipe. I still cannot make them the way she did (and I doubt anyone could, in my opinion).
2½ cups self-rising flour
¼ cup of lard (now butter or oil)
1 cup of thick rich buttermilk
Place flour in a large bowl and make a “well” in the center. Pour oil and begin to work with your hand and then add the buttermilk, continuing to work until pliable and pinch off enough of the dough for a biscuit, roll in your hand, and place on a wrought iron biscuit skillet. Makes about 10 biscuits.
Rub the tops with more oil or butter and bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes.
Call me when they are ready!
