The Ggma Chronicles, part 1: Mama’s Kitchen

A reminiscence written by my grandmother, Alice Green-Kollenborn (1911-2005)

She was my grandmother, but I took to calling her “Ggma” (Gee-gee-ma) when she became my firstborn son’s great-grandmother when he was born in 1982. Soon many referred to her that way. Even my mom, her daughter, who was also named Alice (but who, like me, has always gone by her middle name), called her Ggma after that.

Alice Green (later Alice Kollenborn), my grandma, was born in 1911 at home in Dug Hill or Bella Vista, near both Bentonville and the Missouri line in northwest Arkansas (thirty years before she gave birth to my mother in the same room where she was born). The Green family had moved to northwestern Arkansas from Kansas not long before the birth of my grandmother. What follows is an account she wrote about growing up there a little more than a century ago. She dates the time period by referencing the end of World War 1, which occurred in 1918.

Mama’s Kitchen, by Alice G. Kollenborn

Our house stood tall, weathered and old, atop a rolling Ozark hill overlooking emerald green clover and alfalfa meadows below. This old house lovingly sheltered mama, my two brothers and four sisters. The warm glow inside belied the cold appearance of the silver-gray clapboard siding and cupped shake-shingles.

The huge old kitchen always had a friendly atmosphere, smelling of Mama’s freshly baked bread and warm sorghum cake. Flowered wallpaper brightened the rough board walls. Home made flour sack curtains framed the small four-paned windows which let in the morning and evening light. The rough pine floor was worn smooth and white by the scuffing of many active feet, and frequent scrubbings with lye soap. Scattered about on the floor were colorful braided rag rugs and one shaggy bearskin near the hearth of the huge fireplace, crudely fashioned from white native stone dug from the hillsides.

Hill people’s houses always had huge kitchens to accommodate large families. Also, that was the room in which most of the living was done. Our kitchen was no exception, having plenty of room for the big rough oak table with benches and chairs clustered around it. Mama’s old wood range, with iron teakettle singing, was a refuge for the cats, purring contentedly with soft paws tucked securely beneath their furry chests. Shep, Papa’s black sheep dog, liked nothing better than to stretch out and snooze n the warm hearthstone in front of the open fire as though waiting for his master to return.

Papa died when I was four. The kitchen was never the same after that. We especially missed him when we gathered around the table for our evening meal.

On long winter evenings, Mama would remove her faded calico apron, smooth her long dark hair and pull the brass hanging-lamp down over the table. She’d throw another log on the fire and while the red-orange flames licked at the thick oak bark, we clustered around her rocker as she read our favorite stories by Harold Bell Wright, James Oliver Curwood and Gene Stratton Porter.

Often there was no kerosene for reading by lamplight. Mama would then sing, recite poetry and tell us stories of their trek in a wagon train across the plains where her parents homesteaded and built dug-outs and sod houses. She told us of wild prairie fires sweeping across the Kansas plains and how they often took the horses inside the house to protect them from the flames. We listened spellbound while the flickering flames reflected the crimson glow on the white stone hearth. Slowly the logs burned down to a heap of red-hot coals which Mama covered with shovels of ashes to keep them alive, ready to be uncovered and the embers fanned into a glowing blaze the following morning. Not until then did we all drift reluctantly off to our ice-cold beds.

On the fireplace mantle, the old striking clock hammered the hours away, hurrying us off to the little one-room school-house each morning. Awaking to the aroma of sizzling country sausage, we’d bounce out of bed, dash cold water on our faces to wash the sleep from our eyes as Mama called, “Breakfast!”

Sitting down to the old oak table, we devoured the piping hot buttermilk biscuits, milk gravy, sausage and eggs. For a special treat, we often melted molasses instead of butter in sizzling bacon grease to spread on Mama’s fluffy biscuits. Indeed, we thought this a delicacy fit for royalty.

Rushing home from school, always hungry, we were lured to the kitchen door by the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked light bread Mama would be taking from the oven. Lightly brushing the golden crust with home-rendered lard, she’d empty the mouth-watering loaves onto a wire rack to cool. A huge pan of light biscuits heaped with slabs of golden home-churned butter disappeared like melting snowflakes into seven hungry mouths. Licking the dripping butter from our fingers, we gulped down draughts of cold, creamy milk dipped from a big white crock kept cool in the deep cellar back of the kitchen door.

The crank telephone hanging on the kitchen wall spread the news over the party-line of the declaration of peace that brought an end to World War I. I remember Mama dropping the receiver, clapping her hands and shouting, “Thank God, peace has been declared,” while she laughed and cried hysterically. I didn’t quite understand what the excitement was all about, but I knew it must be something extremely important.

Each Saturday was also an important day for all us kids. Alas! It was bath time. A huge copper boiler heated steaming water on top of the wood stove and the kitchen became a temporary bathroom. In front of the open fireplace behind the privacy of a straight-back kitchen chair draped with a rough towel, we took turns in the galvanized wash tub, frying on one side and freezing on the other, while Mama scrubbed our backs with coarse washcloths. This lasted for a whole week except for a few sponge-baths in between.

The night before Christmas the kitchen took on a festive air as we each hung our long stockings in neat rows under the mantle above the fireplace. Hurrying off to bed we dreamed of Santa dropping down the chimney bringing dolls with sleeping eyes, story books and bags of candy. Of course it was really a dream because Santa’s pack was well spent by the time he reached our house and we were lucky if we found a tiny celluloid doll and cookies in our long cotton stockings. However, the spirit of Christmas was hard to dampen. Mama always taught us to be thankful for whatever we got, but the pang of disappointment stung for a little while, especially after having thumbed through the big Sears catalogs, days on end, with all the lovely toys. I remember how I longed for a beautiful doll and maybe some day a coaster wagon. It made me hurt inside just to think about it, but one thing we never hurt for was love and companionship. Mama saw to that.

Mama had love and compassion for every living creature. To save a baby calf from freezing one cold night around Christmas she carried the half-frozen heifer into the house and placed her in front of the fireplace. Thus, the kitchen became a stable for a short time.

Often the kitchen served as a hospital room for us kids when we were feeling “puny”. With Mama for our nurse, being sick was almost a pleasure. Not only were we the center of attention, but we also had the honor of occupying Papa’s big wooden rocker in front of the crackling fireplace wrapped in one of Mama’s colorful hand-pieced quilts. Of course there were unpleasantries connected with all this coddling. Such as a generous dose of old-fashioned castor oil, a cure-all for whatever ailed us.

Sick or well, spring was the time for the traditional sulpher and molasses tonic for thinning the blood in preparation for the forthcoming hot summer days ahead. I generally escaped this deplorable remedy by quietly creeping under the big table with its colorful oilcloth drapes forming a secure hide-away.

Spring season was also sassafras tea time. Creamy white roots were dug from the sassafras bush, scrubbed thoroughly, then steeped in hot water, as any other tea. Neighbors dropped in to sit in the kitchen and sip this tasty hot delicacy with Mama. I always abhorred the stuff since it tasted like plain old sienna tea—a laxative often poured down constipated kids—and I had my share.

As we kids grew older, several nights a year, the furniture was pushed against the wall and the big kitchen reverberated with lusty singing and dancing feet as neighbors of all ages spilled out of the hills from near and far—on foot and on horseback—to enjoy a long evening of fun. The young and young-in-heart danced the night away to the tune of “OLE DAN TUCKER; SKIP TO MY LOU; IT AIN’T GONNA RAIN,” etc.

However, our happiest and most memorable times were Thanksgiving and other such family holidays when aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents gathered in the kitchen with huge baskets filled with cakes, cookies, fried chicken and all kinds of other goodies. Grandma’s sour cream biscuits and Mama’s cream pies were traditional with our family—as was Mama’s home-made light bread and sorghum molasses cake.

On these delightful days the kitchen buzzed with happy laughter and idle chatter. Long skirts made swishing sounds as the women swayed back and forth setting the table and doing the last minute details.

We children were shooed from underfoot, but took turns sniffing and peeping through the kitchen door at the bulging table—graced with snowy linen table-cloth, and Mama's best silverware and blue willow dishes brought out only on special occasions such as these.

When the table could hold no more food, the men were seated first; the women then gathered us children around the bountiful table and when all were seated and quiet, we bowed our heads while Grandma said grace. We kids ravenously eyed the cakes and pies, fidgeted and hoped Grandma would keep her thanks brief.

There was something special and unforgettable about these days of togetherness and happy sharing. The warmth and love permeated the kitchen walls which lingered after the joyous holidays were long past, but never forgotten.

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Read also: Papa’s Death, Farm Auction, Empty Cupboards, Awful Blizzards, and an Averted Amputation