My sister is getting married next week, and we’ve been collecting Mason Jars from basements family-wide. Yesterday we drove out to the country to visit Granny and her jars.
Did you hear that? I DROVE OUT TO THE COUNTRY. That is to say: it gets MORE country than my little town of 1,500 peoples. It gets more country that my town with no stop lights. Granny lives in a town with about 200 peoples. It’s a beautiful, surprisingly green little community where cows eat the lawns and the chicken population rivals the human population.
There’s no cell service, and most every door is a revolving door for friends and neighbors. You just don’t FIND places like this anymore.
It’s glorious. Stay as long as you like. Your husband won’t be able to reach you anyway… unless he has Granny’s home phone number. (Which he doesn’t.)
Granny married a man who can grow anything anywhere. My sister and I smiled at the snapdragons peaking out in the cracks on Granny’s back porch steps. There’s mint covering on the ground, starter plants growing in Grandpa Max’s homemade starter planters (made from newspaper).
Their home is truly the epitome of country comfort. I’m pretty sure spending an hour around their place cures 90% of What Ails You.
The jars we pulled out of Granny’s Basement were so perfect. Some were vintage and blue, some had round bottoms (and of such I beheld with green jealousy. I want a round bottom…), some were tiny, some held priceless stories about sows.
Granny offered up some of her pretty copper canisters and a few crystal items.
“Everyone should have a Granny,” I sighed.
(Odds of getting Alice looking at the camera and Granny’s eyes open? Slim to none. But we get what we get and we don’t throw a fit.)