by Beth Goodman

Disclaimers: None whatsoever. Oh, maybe a spew alert.

Feedback is always welcome: bethgoodman@e-scribblers.com.

Copyright © 2004 by Beth Goodman. All Rights Reserved.

---

My Aunt Irene was one neat lady. She knew how to do all kinds of cool stuff, and she took Granny and me on some great adventures. She was a very independent soul with a very big heart. I'm named for her actually, well Granny and Aunt Irene: I'm Elisabeth Irene Goodman.

Aunt Irene had a wicked green thumb, and I always loved spending time in her yard. She taught me how to climb a tree there in fact, and now I know why cats get stuck in trees -- it's not that they can't get down, it's that they don't want to leave the tree.

Granny and Aunt Irene shared their love of gardening, and we took lots of trips to nurseries and hardware stores to acquire the tools of the trade. We also made long treks over to the Western Slope of the Colorado Rockies to buy fruit fresh off the tree for canning. Sometimes we even spent the night, and on one trip Aunt Irene took me swimming in the hot springs at Glenwood Springs. They smelled fairly gross, but it was like taking a hot bath in the world's biggest swimming pool and that was pretty darn cool.

One year, we even went to the orchards and picked peaches and plums right off the trees ourselves. Oh, and cherries, we always got Bing cherries to freeze and use for Granny's To Die For Cherry Cobler -- and the peach version was spectacular too!

The highlight of every summer though, was the great Canning Of The Pickles ceremony. Aunt Irene would haul Granny and me over to her house, where the two of them would set up a production line that would have impressed Henry Ford. Jar after jar was washed and dried, and then lined with a grape leaf (Granny swore that was why they were so crunchy) next came large sprigs of dill, a clove of garlic, and one hot pepper (two in the jars that would go to my Stepfather, Ed -- he loved 'em HOT!) Next came the struggle with geometry and physics to stuff as many cucumbers in as possible, without overdoing it -- always seeking the fine balance between high yield and gourmet pickles. Then a boiling a brew of salt and vinegar was poured into the jar and the lid capped it off. It was always my job to listen for each jar to "ping" as they cooled so we knew the seal was good. The soon-to-be-pickles were then stored away for the next few months until they would be resurrected in December as much coveted Christmas treats.

Aunt Irene also took us on many pleasure trips to the mountains, including to our favorite spot where Granny's ashes are now scattered. We also made lots of stops in an old graveyard in Idaho Springs to gather the Baby's Breath that grew wild there which Aunt Irene used in floral arrangements and other craftsy type stuff. There were delightful picnics loaded into her little red station wagon that were then enjoyed in lots of beautiful places. We went to Washington Park in the spring to see the rose gardens come into bloom, and always made a trip up into the Rockies in the fall to watch the aspens turn from green to bright gold.

Aunt Irene even gave me my first driving lesson in that red station wagon, but I never got a second -- I may have been a bit too enthusiastic that first time out....

Above all else, my Aunt Irene taught me something very important. To be myself. She was always genuine and honest with herself and others about what she needed and wanted. She showed me that it is okay to march to the beat of a different drummer, because the truth of it is that the whole band is weird anyway.

Take me to Life With Granny 9...

Feed the Scribbler: bethgoodman@e-scribblers.com.