Back when my sister and I were too young to stay home alone, we were always dropped off at Aunt Joan's whenever my parents went out for the evening, usually to the Mobile Greyhound Park. I never understood their fascination with the dog track, but I always looked forward to spending the night at Aunt Joan's house. She knew how to make sleepovers special for me. As long as she had plenty of Coca-Cola and potato chips, I was set.
When we arrived, Aunt Joan and her daughters would usually be putting the finishing touches on dinner. It was often fried chicken or pork chops, accompanied by fried okra or fried squash, cornbread or biscuits, and fresh peas or beans from Joan's fields, all served with a big glass of sweet tea. My mom's cooking was hit or miss, aside from a few dishes she did well, so Aunt Joan's meals were always a treat. Her fabulous country cooking filled the void.
Aunt Joan was one of the most special people I've ever met, showing unconditional love for her kids, siblings, and their kids. Growing up, I often wished my mom could be more like Joan, especially when it came to cooking. We were a close-knit family back in the day, despite some unfortunate incidents involving unruly family members. I'll touch on those stories, including holiday brawls, in future posts.
After dinner, we kids would hang out on the patio, play in the fields, or jump on the trampoline. Being the smallest, I mostly got bounced around by everyone else. We had free rein of the 13-acre property, except for the swampy area known as "The Branch," which was off-limits due to snakes and other dangers. As night fell, we'd take turns in the two bathrooms. I can still remember the smell of Aunt Joan's soap, similar to Coast Pacific Force. Once clean, we’d head to the den, a large, cozy room with minimal light, a TV in the corner, a fireplace, a huge console stereo, and a Fun Machine Organ. We’d make pallets on the floor with blankets and pillows, play board games, and watch TV with an endless supply of chips and soda. Friday nights were all about watching "Dallas," to see JR’s next move and if Sue Ellen could stay sober for an episode.
At some point, Aunt Joan would bring out the pickles—her bread and butter pickles were the absolute best. She grew her own vegetables and preserved them, filling a small room with mason jars of pickles, blackberry jelly, and other goodies. I wasn't big on veggies back then, but at Aunt Joan's, everything was delicious. By 11 PM, I’d usually pass out watching TV, except for one memorable time when my cousin Lynda’s hamster, Herman, escaped. Waking up to my sister and cousins trying to catch Herman was quite the adventure.
The next morning, I'd wake up to the smell of bacon or sausage and eggs, signaling that mom and dad would be picking us up soon. Those mornings always passed too quickly. When my mom arrived, she never asked how our night was—probably because she didn’t want to hear how much more fun we had at Aunt Joan's compared to home. Our routine at home was similar, minus the den, soda, chips, great food, pickles, and the occasional hamster on the loose.
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