“Hop” Food For The Body And The Soul

A mother grieves the lost of her young child.

Hop”
Food For The Body And The Soul

This story is a little different and a little stranger than any other about my father.

It should be read and understood within the context of the times it occurred.

Those were hard times.

People did what they had to do to survive.

Decorum often had to give way to impropriety and practicality.

People took opportunities as they came their way.

This is what my father did here.

In many ways this story is more about those times than my father.

With all of that in mind here is the story as it was told to me.

So many of my father’s generation seemed to have spent a great deal of their lives continually searching for ways to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads.

My father was no exception.

One of his favorite stories was about how he was able to stay well fed for weeks under the most unusual of circumstances.

This is that story as he related it to us.

Soon after my mother and father were engaged to be married my mother’s youngest brother passed away.

He was only nine years old.

He had succumbed to tuberculosis.

My grandmother was out of her mind with grief just like any other mother would be in such a situation.

As time passed though she just could not bring herself to admit he was actually gone.

The family worried greatly about her state of mind.

Consulting a psychiatrist for help was not an option for people in her generation at that time.

She and the family did not believe in them and even if they did they could not afford one.

It was decided amongst the family that my grandmother needed to take as much time as she needed to grieve and that she needed to grieve in her own way.

They were confident that she would find a way “to get through it” herself.

She had always been so reliable, so centered, and so strong.

She was one tough lady.

They could only hope that she would call on her strength to help her survive such terrible times.

They just didn’t know what else to do.

In order to occupy her time and take her mind off this tragedy she began to cook day and night.

She cooked meal after meal, but the family was unable to eat all the food because there was just too much of it.

Much of it went to waste.

It was because of this that my grandmother decided that she would take the extra food left over each night to her baby’s grave.

The family was shocked, but my grandfather said they should allow her to do this because it might help her find closure.

Now this is where my father entered the picture.

My mother told him what her mother was doing and how worried she was about it.

She feared her mother’s mental state would deteriorate even more when she saw the untouched food spoil at the gravesite.

My father said he would take care of it and he did.

He just didn’t tell her how he would do it.

The first night my father positioned himself behind the family tombstone where the little boy was buried.

He watched as his future mother in law came and placed the food on the grave.

He watched her say a prayer and walk off.

He then came from behind the tombstone and ate the food.

Always hungry and never having enough money for food this was a gift from the heavens in his mind.

After he finished he left the dirty dishes.

The next morning my grandmother returned to the grave and seeing the empty dishes burst out in tears of joy.

She was happy for the first time in months.

This routine continued each night and my father settled into enjoying the free food.

After a few weeks though my father began to notice that there seemed to be a little less food at times.

There were even days when my grandmother did not bring food at all.

He was curious and asked my mother how her mother was dealing with her grief.

My mother told him that her mother seemed to be adjusting.

She confided in her that she believed her son was almost ready to move on because she was preparing him for his crossover by letting him know that he was still loved and would be always.

The food she left showed him that was true.

Soon he would be nourished enough to leave.

My grandfather had been correct when he trusted his wife to find a way to deal with her grief.

She had done just that through her cooking and her visits to the graveside.

Eventually she stopped cooking and bringing food to the grave.

She moved on with her life.

It would be years before my father confided in my mother what his role had been.

As bizarre as this situation may appear it turned out to be positive for everyone.

My grandmother learned to handle her grief and my father had weeks of nourishing food he never could have afforded.