They tromp off, jostling and laughing with the abandon of a couple of puppies turned loose in the hall.
I pack up my loaner binoculars and wait for four P.M., the official teacher release time. The binoculars, my notepad, and I have a mission to accomplish, and aside from that, after several days of weather that remained too wet, Aunt Sarge is due at my house at four-fifteen to finally fix the leak around the stovepipe.
I have my keys in hand and I’m grabbing my loaded backpack when I turn from my desk, and, of all people, Granny T from the Cluck and Oink is standing in my doorway with what looks like a case of Mountain Dew on her hip. I suspect that’s not what is in the box, though, because her stooped-over frame supports the weight easily as she hobbles to the desk to deposit the load. She pulls out a note card with something written on it. A stern nod indicates that I should peruse the contents of the box.
I dare not refuse, and when I check, the interior is filled with what look like lumpy cocoa cookies, stacked in layer-cake fashion with sheets of waxed paper in-between.
“Quit buying Ding Dongs from the store,” she commands. “These’re Granny T’s ’nanner oatmeal raisin pooperoos. Easy to fix up. Don’t cost much. Not too sweet. Child is hungry, he’ll eat them. He’s not bad hungry, he’ll turn up the nose. Long as you don’t add more sugar. Keep them just a little sweet. No using chocolate chips in place of the raisins unless you’re doing it for a party. Never in the classroom, you listenin’ at me now? You want pooperoos that’re just good enough for a hungry child to eat. No better. That’s the secret, mmm-hmm?”
She extends the note card. “This here is the recipe. Easy. Cheap. Oatmeal. Butter. Flour. Bit a sugar. Raisin. Old, brown bananas. Ones so ripe, they’re squishy like mud and smell up the kitchen. Get them almost free, end of the fresh aisle in the Piggly Wiggly. Anythin’ else you need to know?”
I peer into the box, dumbfounded. After a full day at school my head is, as usual, pulsating and my body feels as if it’s been run over by a tour bus. My brain is sluggish in coming up with a response. “Oh…I…oh…okay.”
Did I just agree to bake cookies for these little hooligans?
Granny T wags a craggy finger at me and purses her lips like she’s tasted vinegar. “Now, this here…” She circles her lecture finger toward the cookies. “This’s your job, next batch. I can’t be helpin’ you all the time. I’m a old woman. Got the trouble in my knees. Arthritis in my back. Bad feet. Still have my mind, but I forget it sometimes. I’m old. A crippled-up old woman.”
“Oh…okay. This was really a kind thing to do.” A lump rises in my throat and tears needle my eyes in a completely unexpected assault of emotion. I am not usually the crying sort. In truth, practically never. When you grow up staying mostly in other people’s houses, you learn to keep a polite lid on things, not be any bother.
I swallow hard. Think, What is wrong with you, Benny? Stop it. “Thanks for going to so much trouble.”
“Ffff! Wasn’t any trouble,” Granny T spits out.
I pretend to be busy closing the box. “Well, I do appreciate it. A lot. And I know the kids will.”
“All right, then.” She points herself toward the door, her exit as self-directed as her entrance. “You stop feeding them kids Ding Dongs. They are just takin’ you for a ride. Strip you clean, like locusts in a wheat field. I know. Been a Sunday school teacher longer than you been breathin’ air. My departed husband led the choir sixty-nine years before traveling on to glory. Worked the restaurant in the day, practiced music at night and on Sunday. It’s no favor to any child, spoilin’ him. You want a cream cake from the store in a pretty little package, and you’re up big enough to mow grass, pull weeds, wash somebody’s windows, run the checkout at the grocery, you go get you a job,