Mama’s Kitchen Window

Our new house resembled the old one in many ways. Both were built from sturdy logs which Papa cut from our hillsides. Both contained a parlor; a wide roomy kitchen with a stove and a fireplace; and a little lean-to off the kitchen. The old house had only two bedrooms, though, whereas our new one had three. Also, we had two little dormer rooms in the attic with bookshelves, a high poster bed, and a discarded sofa. This gave us plenty of sleeping space when relatives and visitors stopped by. 

Mama loved her roomy kitchen most of all. That was where we savored the spice of life, she said. A few years after Papa built our new house, he bought a shining glass window for our kitchen. Before that our kitchen had contained a single opening above the worktable, where Mama prepared meals and washed dishes. Covered with screen wire, it provided a glorious view in the spring, summer, and autumn months.

With her hands immersed in dishwater, Mama could let her thoughts soar as she sang the old gospel songs and looked out on the lilacs in bloom, the sunflowers, the velvet marigolds, and the gay sunlight. In the winter months, though, the screen wire was covered by a heavy shutter to keep out the cold. No longer was she able to see folks coming down the road, crossing the mountain from Lonesome Cove.

“That’s why you want your window most of all, Betsey,” teased Papa, as he installed the shining pane. “To see folks passing by.” 

“And why shouldn’t I wish to see others of my own kind?” asked Mama rather spicily, arching her left eye-brow. As she lifted her blue eyes then, she laid a gentle hand on his faded shirt. “You enjoy people, too, Will. We both like to invite them in to pass the time of day.”

On a shivery November night as Mama looked out her new windowpane, she saw someone carrying a lantern. It was Aunt Sarah Ezelle, who lived over in Lonesome Cove. Her husband, Uncle Joe, had died a while back and she’d had a hard time since. (No, they weren’t our aunt and uncle, but we children were taught to address elderly people in this manner.)

Aunt Sarah, in dim twilight dusk, clasped her plaid shawl tightly around her shoulders against the brisk wind. 

Mama flung our door wide. “Come in, Sarah,” she invited warmly. “It’s been ever so long since we’ve seen you.”

“I’m traveling a mite late,” said Aunt Sarah, as Mama set a chair by our hearth.

Aunt Sarah laid aside her shawl. She warmed her cold fingers and watched the pumpkin colored flames leaping up our chimney.

“That wind,” said Mama. “I never saw it twirl around so elfishly.”

Aunt Sarah sighed. “I washed all day for Mattie Sloan. Work’s getting scarce, though, over in Lonesome Cove, with all the canning stacked on the shelf. Thought I travel here in Deep Valley a spell to pick up a coin or two.”

Mama set out the leftover dishes from supper. A pleated little frown zigzagged across her forehead. She looked at Papa, who sat mending Jerry’s shoe. Their eyes met as they thought of their own financial problems. 

The next morning Aunt Sarah watched the sunlight rays stream through our windowpane. “Your kitchen window is so lovely, Betsey. As I hurried down the hill last night, I saw the light shining from it. I’d knew I’d be safe if I could only reach that light.”

Mama looked at the window, bright and glistening. She’d waited so long for the prized possession. At last it had become a reality. 

“I’ll travel down to Magdalena Lane’s after helping you a mite,” Aunt Sarah said. “She needs me to help render lard.”

“Perhaps you can help me after that. I have meat to can and the soap to make.”

Mama stopped to observe the sole leaf clinging to the tree outside the window. “Will and I talked things over last night, Sarah, she reflected slowly. “You’ve been on the road since Joe’s passing. So why not stop with us awhile?”

Aunt Sarah started to interrupt, but Mama paid no heed. “That’s what neighbors are for-to help one another in time of need. My Bible tells me that. You’ll be helping us, and we’ll provide shelter and keep for you.”

“I must earn my keep,” insisted Aunt Sarah firmly.

“You’ll earn it, helping Jenny and me wait on all these menfolk.” Mama smiled at me before glancing with pride at Papa and her four sons. “Will,” she said then. “I might just set up my cookie and cake store soon. With Sarah’s help I could run it now.”

“Your store!” exclaimed Papa. His tone made us know this topic had certainly not been discussed the night before.

His brown eyes crinkled gaily then. “You’ve talked of your dream store all these years, Betsey.”

“I’ll study new recipes and make it pay,” affirmed Mama. She held her tiny form straight by Papa’s side. “More coffee, Will?” she asked brightly.

“We’ll see,” said Papa, his eyes serious now. I may ride into town tomorrow to see Mr. Atwood at the bank.” 

That was the beginning of the little sweet shop in our backyard. True to her promise, Mama, with her untiring energy, her innate talent for making friends, and Aunt Sarah’s help, baked endless stacks of cakes and cookies. The two made money and gradually paid off the bank loan. Thereafter, they carefully kept count of their profits in their little budget book. 

Eventually Aunt Sarah saved enough money to plan a little house of her own. 

“You’re like my family now,” she told us. “All the same, though, I need a place of my own.” 

“A place of your own! But, Sarah-” exclaimed Mama.

“Betsey,” Aunt Sarah replied softly, “do you remember that first night I saw your light in the kitchen window? Well, ever since I’ve wanted a little house with a window just like yours. All shiny glass so I can see folks passing by.”

Happily Mama threw a gay look in Papa’s direction. “I do so love people, don’t you, Sarah?”

“I do now,” answered Sarah Ezelle hesitantly. “But not always. Betsey, you taught me to love the neighbors around me-and God.” 

Her eyes shone with inward happiness. They’d been like that since she accepted the Lord in a meeting at Lonesome Cove two weeks before.

“Why, Sarah-” faltered Mama. For once in her life she had no words ready on her tongue.

“So I want a kitchen window just like yours,” Aunt Sarah continued her plans. “And I’ll do my best to witness through the window the way you’ve done all this time.” 

“Witness through the window?” exclaimed Mama, her voice a note of wonder.

“Indeed you have,” asserted Sarah firmly. “Every person you see through that window, you go right out and invite them in to eat victuals. And sooner or later you wind up giving them spiritual food, too.”

“Spiritual food?”

“Yes, spiritual victuals, Betsey Jennings. By your interest in people’s doings and your showing them what God has done for you.”

“Oh, Sarah,” said Mama softly.

“Betsey,” said Papa, clearing his throat and speaking at last. His brown eyes looked tenderly at Mama. He paused to gaze out her kitchen window where she had lately sowed fresh marigolds.

“Betsey,” he began again, shy as always when especially moved, “the boys and I may just add another pane there near the stove.”

From Mama’s Kitchen Window