Oyster Stew For Breakfast

I'm sitting here this morning with a hot cup of left-over oyster stew and crackers.

Not your usual breakfast, but when available, it's my way of recalling a time some 70 years ago when I would spend the night at my Grandma Bost's home in Statesville, NC.

Saturday night oyster stew was her way of bringing the family together. Most still lived nearby her house on 1224 Fifth Street. Yes, I still remember the house number, even at age 77!

Often, after all my aunts, uncles and cousins would leave, I would spend the night. Early the next morning, Grampa Bost would get up before walking the few blocks up Boulevard Avenue to the Baptist Church, he'd warm up a bowl of left over oyster stew. Not in the microwave like I just did, but on the gas range, cautiously lit by holding a wooden match up against the burner.

I thought sharing his oyster stew with me was a sign of affection, as Grampa Roe, short for Rowan, didn't talk much. The losses suffered by the Great Depression seem to have lingered in his spirit.

He didn't drive, so he'd hurriedly eat his soup and scurry up the sidewalk where I understand he would shake hands with people as they entered church.

Grammaw, as we referred to her, would later walk me up the street to the church my Mom and Dad attended, the Fifth Street Church of God, founded by my great-grandfather.

Not sure why Grampa Bost never attended with us, as he never shared the "why" behind his religious preference. He had however, sawmilled the timbers necessary to build our small church.

Maybe those fiery evangelists, the shouting that often occured in the aisles, prolonged altar moments as people lingered, some slain in the Spirit, was just too much for his wounded soul. Hard Work, not much sharing, while doing his own thing seemed his lot.

As one ages and family members one by one disappear, childhood memories become treasures and in this case linked to my silent Sunday morning shared oyster stew moments.