Llama Llama or Yamma Yamma?

   Once a week, Little Two and I carve out time for ourselves. I pick her up early from school for some special girl-time. As I open the door to her schoolroom, she usually gasps as soon as she catches a glimpse of my face. There is nothing much better than the adoration of a grandchild. It stops my heart every time. Most days Little Two drops what she is doing, and runs to me yelling "Nonna, Nonna..." at the top of her little toddler voice. It is music to my ears.
   This last week when I opened the door, Little Two was sitting at the tiny table with her classmates having her afternoon snack, some delectable yogurt concoction. Immediately, I could see the conflict on her face. She kept looking from me to her bowl and back again. That yogurt was just so good. I solved her problem. I pulled a chair up to the table and sat down beside her. To my delight and surprise Little Two proceeded, toddler fashion, to introduce me to all of her teachers and classmates. She pointed and named each person, nodding and grinning with obvious pride. I would repeat each name and she would move to the next. Then she would start all over again. It was hilarious.
    After we packed her things up, we headed back to Little Two's house. Other than playing outside and watching Elmo, Little Two loves nothing better than reading books. (She is part of a long line of book lovers: most notably her great-grandmother, BaBa, and her great-great-grandmother, Lou Lou.) And of course, being the opinionated almost-two-year old that she is, Little Two has her definite favorites...mostly those toddler books with flaps and things hiding behind them, but there is one book to which she returns over and over again: Llama Llama Red Pajama, except she calls it Yamma Yamma Red PaYamma.
     We have our routine down. Little Two reads Llama Llama to me and then I read it to her. She laughs. She takes the book from me, goes back to the beginning, and then we do it again. And again. I am not certain what it is about toddlers and the act of repetition, but doing the same thing over and over again must bring them a sense of comfort and security. All I know is that Yamma Yamma Red PaYamma is burned into this grandmother's brain.

And by the way, if you have not met Llama Llama, you must do so quickly!

Nonna needed a break from Llama Llama, so we headed outside to pick the last of the summer's tomatoes. 

Little Two had to test them to be sure that they tasted just right. They did.

Isn't she just precious?!!!

She undoubtedly has my heart in the palm of her hand....

It Wasn't Mama in the Kitchen....

  It wasn't Mama in the kitchen, it was Pearly. She was the queen of the kitchen and everybody knew it, even Mama Frankie, my great-grandmother. Mama Frankie ruled the rest of the house with an iron hand but Pearly outranked even my great-grandmother when it came to that kitchen. Everybody...from the youngest to the oldest knew better than to mess with Pearly's domain. The only occupants who had a standing invitation were those who had not yet reached counter height. I have been back to that house on Main Street as an adult, and I don't know how she did it, but day after day she worked her magic and turned out some of the best cooking this side of the Mississippi River.  I ate my first table food with Pearly...probably field peas mashed nearly to mush accompanied by cornbread softened with a little pot liquor. Pearly was a diminutive woman, but she stands tall in my memory. Her tightly curled hair was cropped short to her head and was already turning from gray to white even when I was a little girl, but I loved the softness of her skin and the way that she always smelled faintly of baby powder. Even today I can close my eyes and see those heavily starched aprons in the tiny muslin print that she wore day after day. They had two deep pockets in the front and when she knew that we were coming, she would hide treats in those pockets -- usually biscuits that were cut with a special glass that was just the right size for tiny hands. She loved for us to come up behind her and reach our grubby little hands around her waist into those pockets. Pearly always acted shocked when we found the biscuits or sugar cookies she had hidden there and for years upon years I thought that we had actually taken her by surprise. I know better now.
   I also sadly know that I did not understand nor appreciate, not by a mile, the sacrifice of time and love that Pearly so generously gave my great-grandmother and our family. I don't think I ever paid a visit to my great-grandmother's house that Pearly was not there. As a child I would walk with my cousins from my own grandmother's house down the street to eat many a hot lunch with Pearly holding court in that tiny kitchen. I am ashamed to say that I did not know Pearly's family or the names of her children and grandchildren. I always assumed we were her family, and she never ever made me feel as if I were otherwise.
   Times have changed and much of the change was far too long in coming. I cannot go back and traverse those roads except in memory. But in my heart I say thank you to Pearly and the women like her who loved children like me and showered us with welcoming hugs, acceptance, and a love that bears a mighty strong resemblance to the love of Christ. Pearly took us, who were not her own flesh and blood, and made us feel as though we were her own. And for a fatherless little girl it was one of the special ways that the Heavenly Father wrapped me in His own loving arms. Merry Christmas, Pearly. I still love you.