There are many beliefs, myths, and narratives about Southern women, and ones about Southern moms are omnipresent. These ladies, it seemed, knew how to be kind and resilient, creative and practical, prudent and independent— all at the same time! In this essay, a Georgia writer thinks back to the early 1970s to one of her mother’s distinctive habits, and in examining it, reveals the peccadilloes that hid in the background.

The Best Glasses
by DeLane Phillips

The scent of fresh tea brewing on a hot summer’s day takes me back fifty years to my mother’s kitchen in Monroe, Georgia. Like a magic carpet, the tea’s heavy scent wafts through the kitchen, through the screen door, and onto our 1960s-styled brick carport. Instinctively, we know the heavy glass pitcher that we are never allowed to touch is sitting on the kitchen counter, always in the same spot, next to the kitchen sink. Filled with a cup of white sugar, the pitcher waits for Momma to dissolve the contents with the hot, bitter brew. Momma only used Lipton tea bags, nothing else was good enough. We knew that, following the tea, that day’s course would begin to announce itself within the hour. Momma’s day had begun. At least that’s what my little brother and I thought. Little did we know Momma had risen hours earlier to sweat in the garden picking peas, clean the house, and do laundry.

Despite the use of fans and screen doors, Georgia’s July forced Momma to cook early in the mornings. During the week, dried beans and vegetables simmered for hours. We were privy to all her culinary scents: meatloaf, squash, salmon patties, vegetable soup, green beans, barbeque chicken, okra, corn, the list was endless.

The kitchen counter display previewed the night’s meal, the following day’s meal, or Sunday’s lunch after church. Beans that had soaked overnight in a huge pot were rinsed the following morning and refilled with fresh water, ham bits, then set to simmer. Along with the soaking beans, a roast might be thawing, a can of salmon was set out to fry later, or a bowl of cornbread was rising to be delivered later in a hot, greasy, iron skillet. We never knew hunger, yet were always hungry. We selfishly devoured all that she laid before us and never thought we had enough.

Momma would call us in for breakfast. Home from school in the summertime, we would sit down to breakfast accompanied by a thick, glass Mason jar filled with ice. Momma would lift the heavy glass pitcher, walk to the table, and pour the warm, dark, sweet liquid over ice. Momma was not about to trust us with her best glasses.

Any visitor to our home was greeted with a glass of Momma’s tea. Anyone who was not a child was served from the best glasses. The best glasses were stored high in the kitchen cabinet away from our little, grubby, Mason-jar hands. Once I decided to explore the secret cabinet where the best glasses were stored. Climbing onto the kitchen counter, and standing while also balancing the cabinet door below, I managed to stand on the counter and reach the cabinet of the best glasses. Stepping back, however, I fell, landing on the corner of the open cabinet door on the way down to the linoleum floor. I ended up having an embarrassing visit to the family doctor. I never made it past the best glasses to the contents stored in the back of the cabinet.

I discovered the contents of the secret space behind the best glasses one Halloween when, after dark, some children showed up on our doorstep. No one ever trick-or-treated on our road. We lived in the country way off a dirt road with just one elderly man named Stanley, living at the dead end with his brother.

Momma had to drive us up the road out to other homes if we got to go trick-or-treating at all, if ever. One windy October evening, trick-or-treater’s showed up. Embarrassed, Momma jumped up, grabbed a chair, and proceeded to stand on the chair in order to reach the high cabinet where she kept the best glasses. My little brother and I watched dark faces outlined with white powder and realized the fact that we were about to find out Momma’s secret. Momma pulled out a bag of Snicker’s candy bars and chocolate cookies. We stood speechless with our mouths hanging open as she passed out candy and cookies to our painted visitors.

Not only were sweet treats stored behind the best glasses, the cabinet also kept something else that Momma called “her peace pills.” From the carport, we not only knew what was for dinner, we could also hear every telephone conversation Momma had with our aunt on the kitchen rotary phone. Momma told our aunt that she usually took her peace pill after dinner, right after our father went to bed for the night.

These days Momma’s visits grow less and less frequent. When she does visit, I always have fresh tea prepared, Lipton no less. Momma complains when I hand her a glass, “Why don’t you use plastic? Think of all the dishes you’ll wash!”

“But Momma,” I reply, “I can’t imagine drinking from anything else but the best glasses with you.”

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DeLane Phillips is a Southern writer, former teacher, empty nester, and parent of two dachshunds Mac and Sasha. Much of her writing is inspired by the rural life from her childhood in Monroe, Georgia and various characters of the small Southern towns she has lived in.

Lesson Plan: NH-MSF Lesson Plan Personal Narrative