Scripts

Ms. Martha and there are others……..

Ms. Martha was a vocal, blunt, interesting woman, who decided she did like me. She wore huge, thick rimmed, red glasses and she still had to have the television and anything in print almost pressed up to her nose. She bragged that she read everything she got close to since she was a young girl and I absolutely believe her. Two things I think of now that she is no longer here on earth is that she loved to learn and that she said when she absolutely could not see and when we had the time, I would read to her. Our first book would be one on facts. Of what? I can not remember. To be honest, I was really not excited to read that one to her. I have always known that if I have to read out loud to someone, it would most definitely be a difficult read. Of course she no longer drove. I did catch myself watching for her to weave by me one day because her keys and her car were still at the condo with her. So each week, she insisted her daughter pick her up and take her to Winn-Dixie. They had to stay at least three hours. Why? So she could read the labels on every can and box she possibly could. I always hoped to spot her there and spy on her. I could picture her absorbing every single word like a little old sponge. She never shared this information with me. I was always a little afraid she would and then I just knew she would quiz me. Every time I went to her home, she was making something awesome to eat. Everything was already cut up and in a pot by the time I arrived. So I do not know if she put her face to the cutting board or just felt along for everything. Doesn’t matter. It smelled and tasted better than I could ever describe.  She promised me her secret family cookbook when she died. By the way, I was told very strongly to never say she passed, but to say boldly, out loud, she died. She was very serious, so was I, when I said, I completely understood. Orange frizzy hair,the very thick glasses that made her eyes huge like an owl, hunched over slightly,with really red lipstick all over her front teeth and not quite on the lips anymore telling me each and every time that I must take the kids to the restaurant with the big huge pink pig outside of it. I never did and I never got the cookbook. Her daughter took that out before anything else left that home. Doesn’t matter. I have no clue how to make any of her tasty recipes except squash casserole. But it just does not matter. That’s not what all of this remembering is all about.

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