This past weekend I read the new Southern Living magazine,
which featured a story about the Southern custom of
“dinner-on-the-grounds.”
(I don’t know –
maybe Yankees have the same custom?)
The
recipes all sounded fabulous – especially the desserts -- but the story brought
back wonderful memories from my childhood.
Every summer, the little church in rural Arkansas that my
great-grandparents had attended held Homecoming Sunday, and my parents made the
trip from Little Rock with us kids several times that I recall.
My great-grandparents are buried in the
graveyard behind the church, and we always went out to see their headstones and
hear stories about them.
I even have a
photo of my baby sister holding my daughter as a toddler next to my great-grandparents’
headstones!
(You know you’re Southern,
if you take photos of children in graveyards.) My sister is going to kill me for posting a photo of her wearing tube socks.
A church service was always held before
dinner-on-the-grounds, and I remember sitting in the un-air-conditioned
building, dressed in my Sunday best and fanning myself for dear life.
I was always more than ready for the service
to end and the meal to begin.
My grandmother and aunts would have been cooking for days in
preparation.
Each had her specialties,
and we knew to look for them on the long tables set up under the pines to hold
all the food.
Some of my favorites were
Grandma Rachel’s fried chicken, caramel cake, and fried pies, not to mention
Aunt Ava’s homemade bread and Aunt Lottie’s “goop” salad.
The grownups usually sat on folding lawn
chairs to eat, but the children sat on blankets and quilts spread under the
pine trees.
After lunch was the hymn sing, and I enjoyed that part,
too.
As I recall, the pianist was one
who could play everything with a real flourish.
We sang all the old-time hymns, but my favorite song was Little Brown
Church in the Vale.
It was a song I
learned from my parents, who would sing with us on long car trips.
My daddy and my brother would sing the
“Oh-oh, come, come, come, come” part while my mother, sisters, and I sang the
refrain.
In wonderful synchronicity, this past Sunday was our church’s
annual Gospel Sunday, and we sang FOURTEEN of the old beloved hymns, including
Little Brown Church in the Vale.
After
standing on the promises – and Jordan’s stormy banks--, leaning on the everlasting
arms, and counting our blessings, all present were singing When the Roll is
Called up Yonder with conviction!
(By
the way, my offspring have strict orders to include that last one in my
memorial service.)
I am thankful for the fond memories I have associated
with dinner-on-the-grounds and old beloved hymns.
