Slow Down A Little !!

I thank I stole this from Old Fashioned Living several years ago and have kept it and read it and taken it to heart.. As I sit here and watch it snowin and folks runnin about as fast as their little legs and their cars will carry them, I caint help but thank about this story and I thought I might pass it along to those that in a hurry to get somewhere today..

Weary from the corporate climb, I thought about my
grandmother's legacy of love and homemade soup

By Barbara Davey


Have you ever noticed the busier your life seems to
be, the more empty it appears to become? I remember
staring at my date book early one Monday morning --
scores of meetings, deadlines, projects leered back at
me, assailing my senses and demanding my attention. An
aging baby-boomer, I had been climbing the proverbial
"corporate ladder" for over 25 years. I had worked
hard, earned a coveted corner office, wore designer
suits, and frequented the "hottest" social clubs in
the big city. However, that morning a nagging
emptiness continued to permeate my thoughts, and I
remember ruminating for the umpteenth time, what does
all this really matter?

And lately, with all this introspection, I've been
remembering my beloved grandmother and the lovely
little town in which I had grown up. Gram had a sixth
grade education, an abundance of kitchen table wisdom,
and a wonderful sense of humor. Everyone who met her
thought it was so appropriate that she had been born
on April 1 -- the day of practical jokes, good laughs,
and hearty humor -- and she certainly spent her
lifetime buoying up everyone's spirits.

Cerebral she was not, but to a child, Disney World
personified. Every activity with Gram became an event,
an occasion to celebrate, a reason to laugh. Looking
back, I realize it was a different time, a different
sphere. Family, fun and food, though nature also
played an important role.

Gram had always loved birds. "If I could come back
here as something else, it would be a bird -- a big
red one," she'd say. "Why," I used to ask. "Because
birds are beautiful. They fly like God's angels." So
birds became a part of our routine. As a child, I
would accompany Gram feeding pigeons in the park,
songbirds in the garden, and seagulls at the
shoreline.

Years later, I think I tried to recapture some of
Gram's affinity with nature. One winter to celebrate
the solstice, I coaxed my husband to help me in
assembling an elaborate bird feeder outside our
kitchen window. For weeks, I'd fill it with "gourmet"
birdseed, only to have the wind scatter them. Looking
back, I had never seen a bird near the feeder, so I
eventually stopped filling it.

But as much as Gram enjoyed her birds, meals were her
mainstay -- occasions to be planned, savored and
enjoyed. Hot, sit-down breakfasts were mandatory. The
preparation of lunch began at 10:30 every morning,
with homemade soup simmering, and dinner plans started
at 3:30 p.m. with a telephone call to the local
butcher to make a delivery. Gram spent a lifetime
meeting the most basic needs of her family.

Later that Monday evening as I stopped to pick up yet
another take-out meal, my mind traveled back to her
kitchen. The old oak kitchen table, with the single
pedestal...the endless pots of soups, stews and
gravies perpetually simmering on the stove top... the
homey tablecloths stained with love from a meal past.
"My gosh," I thought with a start. "I'm 47 years old,
and I have yet to make a pot of soup or stew from
scratch...!"

Suddenly, the cardboard containers filled with gourmet
food nestled in my passenger seat next to me seemed
almost obscene. I felt as if I had been blessed with a
wonderful legacy, and for one reason or another, have
never quite gotten to the point of passing it on.

The following day, I rummaged through the attic
searching for a cardboard box that had been stowed
away. Thirty years ago, that box had been given to me
when Gram decided to move from the old homestead. I
vaguely remember going through my "inheritance" as a
teen. Every granddaughter had received a pocketbook,
mine was a jeweled evening bag, circa 1920. I
remembered I carried it at my college graduation.
However, being a headstrong teen at the time of my
"inheritance," I never really bothered with the rest
of the contents. They remained sealed in that same
box, buried somewhere in the attic.

It wasn't that difficult to locate the box, and it was
even easier to open it. The tape was old, and gave way
easily. Lifting the top, I saw Gram had wrapped some
items in old linen napkins -- a butter dish, a vase
and at the very bottom, one of her old soup pots. The
lid was taped to the pot itself. I peeled back the
tape and removed the lid.

At the bottom of the pot was a letter, penned in
Gram's own hand:

My darling Barbara,

I know you will find this one day many years from
now.... While you are reading this please remember how
much I loved you, for I'll be with the angels then,
and I won't be able to tell you myself...

You were always so headstrong, so quick, so much in a
hurry to grow up. I often had wished that I could have
kept you a baby forever....When you stop running, when
it's time for you to slow down, I want you to take out
your Gram's old soup pot, and make your house a home.
I have enclosed the recipe for your favorite soup, the
one I used to make for you when you were my baby.

Remember I love you, and love is forever...

Your Gram

I sat reading that note over and over that morning,
sobbing that I had not appreciated her enough when I
had her... "You were such a treasure," I moaned, "Why
didn't I even bother to look inside this pot while you
were still alive...!"

Needless to say, my briefcase remained locked, the
answering machine continued to blink, and the
disasters of the outside world were put on hold. I had
a pot to soup to make, and for once, my priority was
clear.

Hours later, after cutting, mincing and dicing, the
smell of soup began to waft through the kitchen. I
closed my eyes. It was as if Gram were here again, I
could almost feel her arms around me. I got up to
close the kitchen window, as I didn't want any of this
precious memory to escape.

At first, I thought I had imagined it, so I blinked.
But it was still there, sitting in the middle of my
empty bird feeder, cocking its head, and staring at
me...the most beautiful, brilliant cardinal I had ever
seen...

Now to go make a skillet of cornbread to go with the huge pot of homemade beef stew thats just about ready.. Let it snow !!