My grandma’s cookie jar sat on the counter in a corner of her little pink kitchen, just waiting for her grandchildren to show up. Oh, how I looked forward to putting my hand into that cookie jar and grabbing one of those mouthwatering store bought cookies. As far as I was concerned, I suffered from a deprived childhood – my mother stocked our cookie jar with only home baked cookies. I had to suffer through spicy snickerdoodles, chewy discs of oatmeal raisin, buttery shortbread. Poor me!
Grandma’s cookie jar was magic. Whoever thought that Lorna Doones, Oreos and those crazy puffy chocolate marshmallow creations would have more appeal than homemade cookies? Well, it’s true. I suppose it was the novelty. It was against Mother’s religion, I’m sure, to buy cookies at the store. She produced batches of the homemade ones almost every Saturday. Of course I ate them, and loved them, but oh, the delight of grandma’s cookie jar! A ceramic apple, it was carefully shaded in soft tones of red and yellow, with bright green leaves circling the lid. It was always full of some wonderful surprise.
Years went by, but I never forgot the cookie jar. As my grandparents grew older and were forced to give up housekeeping, the cookie jar came to mind. How I would love to have this token of my grandma’s affection sitting on my own kitchen counter, to be filled for my own children and grandchildren. But here I was, transplanted to New Hampshire, 3000 miles away from my extended family in Washington state.
“It won’t hurt to ask,” I thought. So I did. I called my aunt to find out where that precious cookie jar had landed.
“Oh, my granddaughter really wanted it, so we let her have it,” she replied. My heart sank. Well, I guess that’s what I got for moving so far away.
Fast forward about five years. By this time my oldest daughter was a teenager and much in demand as a babysitter. One busy Saturday morning (they were always busy in those days) I found myself trapped into delivering her to a friend’s house to babysit. Feeling generally crabby and angry for letting myself be manipulated, I got in the car with her and we started out. On the way, I pulled myself up short and adjusted my attitude. Here in my lap were a few precious and rare moments alone with my daughter. in spite of my irritation, gradually the dark cloud of resentment lifted. We chatted about her week, the school play and the other drama in her life. This was going to be OK!
Soon we arrived at my friend’s home and went in. After the obligatory hello’s, something on the kitchen counter caught my eye. There it was – my grandma’s cookie jar! Unbelievable. Nobody was making cookie jars like that any more.
Surprised, I exclaimed, “Oh, look at your cookie jar – it’s just like the one my grandma used to keep on her counter!”
“Oh, that old thing?” replied my friend. “I bought it at a garage sale for a dollar. I’d love to get rid of it. Take it – it’s yours!!
