Saturday morning found me itching to get on over to my grandma’s kitchen. Where the sweetest little berries was cooking up right. And then we’d put them in a canning jar and seal them up tight
We were making jam! Strawberry jam. If you want the best jam. You’ve gotta make your own
We have Smucker’s, Welches, Knotts Berry Farm. But a little homemade jam never did a body no harm. A little local motion is all that we need.To close down these corporate jam factories.
We have a little revolution sweeping the land. Once more everybody’s making homemade jam. So call your friends up on the telephone. Invite ’em over, make some jam of your own!
I should write a snippet about my grandmother!
Over yonder down by the dump…Grandmother and Grandfather taught me how to pick through the junk.
I had soiled baby dolls and discovered packs of rats. Through the pornographic Irish limericks and over the hills of waste rang the words ‘do not take more than you waste.’
Once back at the camp I learned to eat sardines with Gramps and cover it with cheese for taste. Right before the door to my nightmare opened it’s eyes. Watching from the table clad in checkered plastic and sitting at a splintered rocker…bringing me back down to right size.
A game of Monopoly with Grams as banker. Taught me to cheat, rob and pillaged everyone…as long as I said, Thank ya’.
Dysfunction is fun I’ve discovered. It is not something to fear yet only a set of directions to watch you haven’t a game.