I was looking through my Documents File yesterday for a story I wanted to submit. I got sidetracked by scrolling through the entire list, stopping to read a few stories I've written over the years. I write them primarily for my family. I want them to know what life was like in my growing up years, about their grandparents' lives, and bits and pieces of life with my siblings, too. I keep these stories in a computer file but also in a large 3-ring binder.
I've also made a binder filled with family stories for each of my brothers. Two of them are deceased now, but the stories are now for their children and grandchildren. The stories don't change, but those who possess them do.
I'm going to share one of the stories I found yesterday about what it was like to spend mornings with my mother in my grandmother's small neighborhood bakery when I was quite small, 3, 4, and 5. The memories are quite clear, probably because I was impressed with that part of my young life. As an adult, I realized the lessons I learned during my time in the workroom of the bakery, so I incorporated that into what I wrote. I'm sharing it today as an example of what you can do with a family story. Maybe my story will trigger a memory of your own that you can write about.
Grandma’s Bakery—Memories and Lessons
I watched my Uncle Paul put long pans of rolls into the big oven. He grinned and said, “Tea Break.”
He didn’t have to say it twice. I hurried over to the long, narrow table covered with light green oil-cloth. It was the place where my mother and her brother and their mother took time to rest from long hours on their feet.
Grandma owned a small, neighborhood bakery but could only run it with morning help from family. I was family but certainly, no help, being a preschool child. Even so, I had the rare privilege of spending a few hours each day in a world scented with cinnamon, yeast, and family.
At the table, thick white cups on matching saucers were set before each of us and a plate of some fresh-baked delicacy graced the center of the table. I scrambled onto the long bench and waited while Grandma brewed the tea in a large brown teapot.
“You can only make good tea in a brown pot,” she said as she poured the steaming liquid into our cups.
She filled mine half-full, then added milk and a bit of sugar. “English tea for you,” she’d say before she sank onto the bench. Grandma added some sugar to her tea and passed the plate of sweet rolls or cookies or whatever it happened to be. She conditioned me to crave a little something sweet when having a cup of tea.
Our tea breaks weren’t long for there was always a new task waiting for these three members of my family. When we’d eaten every crumb on the treat plate and drained our cups, Grandma and Uncle Paul went back to the baking. My mother relieved Adeline, the girl who worked in the front room serving customers. I’d kneel on the bench and wait for Adeline to come to the table and pour her own cup of tea. Grandma brought her a small plate with a treat on it and I chattered while Adeline savored both her tea and a rest. She was young and pretty with golden curls, always smiling or laughing.
I heard Grandma say one day that Adeline was a good worker despite being so young. “Those Czech girls know how to work. I’d hire another one to help her if I could afford it.”
The bakery served as Grandma’s only income, and she watched her pennies carefully. Adeline never complained about low pay. When she finished her tea, she’d give me a hug and hurry back to the front room to continue selling bakery goods and taking orders for later. I peeked around the edge of the doorway and watched as she wrapped the purchases carefully and handed them to the customers along with her warm smile. “There you go,” she’d say. “Come back soon.”
Every bone in my skinny little body yearned to be out front with Adeline. I wanted to talk to the customers, too, but it was forbidden territory. Grandma told me I must never go through that doorway. My mother told me. My Uncle Paul told me. Even so, the lure of that front room with people coming and going proved to be my undoing now and then.
As soon as I started peeking around the doorway, I inched my way through on tip-toes. I tried to stand behind the bakery cases and watch but it never lasted long. I’d feel a strong hand grasp my upper arm and I got pulled, none too gently, into the work room. Two things happened next. First came the scolding followed by me being marched to the side of a large refrigerator. “Now you stand there and think about what you did.” Uncle Paul repeated the same words every time. He turned me so that my back was against the fridge and my face far away from the doorway that lured me like a siren of the sea so many times.
I spent the half-hour watching all the activity around me--Grandma and my mother rolling dough or slicing apples for pies and Uncle Paul hoisting huge tins of flour and sugar for them. Then he’d punch down the bread dough and begin shaping it into loaves. I loved the yeasty aroma that drifted into every corner of that big workroom.
Sometimes, I’d be able to see deliverymen come through the back door toting everything from lard to flour to butter to sugar, milk, and eggs. Grandma got extra rations for her business during those WWII years. I learned that making a business successful meant hard work and being careful with money.
Occasionally, Adeline came to the workroom to get more baked goods for the cases. She didn’t dare talk to me during punishment time nor could I speak to her. But as she walked by, arms loaded with bread and cinnamon rolls, she’d make a funny face and wink at me. I clapped my hands over my mouth so I wouldn’t giggle. I learned that punishment was serious business but it didn’t mean the end of the world. Life would go on after I’d served my sentence.
When Uncle Paul gave me the signal, I dragged a big flour tin close to Grandma and climbed onto it so I could watch at the high table where she worked. If she had nuts ready to use, I asked her, “Just one nut for me, Grandma?” and she’d hand me one. I had my single pecan every day of the week. If she was making fancy tea sandwiches for a catering order, I’d ask, “Just one for me, Grandma?” She’d hand me the tiny treat without a word. I learned that even a little bit of something you crave is satisfying.
The mornings in Grandma’s bakery remain a clear memory. I see my grandma in her Mother Hubbard apron, hair braided and wrapped atop her head like a crown. Her rimless glasses steamed often from the heat of the ovens and hot water in the deep sink. I see my mother, young, with a colored ribbon woven into her curls, apron wrapped around her cotton dress darting me warning looks if I ventured near the doorway to the front room. I see my Uncle Paul with his thick, blond hair swept straight back from his forehead, a large flour sack towel tied around his waist for an apron. I see Adeline running back and forth from the front to the workroom, curls bouncing, with always a word or a pat for me.
Some families would not have wanted a small child wandering around a busy workroom like Grandma’s. I consider myself the fortunate one for being accepted there. I learned so many small life lessons that serve me to this day and I felt safe and loved, despite the occasional scolding.
It’s when I have a cup of tea now that these memories and lessons learned come floating back to me. Once again, I am at the oil-cloth-covered table with Grandma pouring my English tea and handing me a sweet roll smelling of yeast and cinnamon.
My Grandmother
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