Free The Secret of the Dark by Barbara Steiner Page B

note to ask Neal where to buy better ones. I’d brought only my music tapes, not thinking I might like to record anything.
    Granny sang a very sad song about a woman who lost her three children.
    â€œA marble stone lays at our heads, Mother,
    And cold clods lay at our feet;
    And the tears that you will shed, Mother,
    Will wet our winding sheet.”
    The last notes hung in the air and cast a mournful mood on both of us, bringing back all the feelings I’d had reading the hate letter.
    â€œAren’t there any happy ballads, Granny?”
    â€œSome, I reckon.” Granny struck a happier chord and sang “The Fox Goes a Hunting.” I marveled to see her play with the guitar flat in her lap. The instrument was the color of golden honey and had worn smooth over the years Granny had played it.
    â€œHow old is that guitar, Granny?” I asked when the air felt lively and echoed of the fox and his children eating their fill of the goose he’d gotten in the town-o.
    â€œI don’t recollect exactly. When I was five my daddy made me a gourd banjo. He made it by stretching a tanned rabbit hide over a dried-out gourd. The strings were horse hairs. I thought it was a wonderful thing. Ker-plink, ker-plink, kerplink, plink, plink.” She laughed remembering it. “Yes, hit was real fine. Now that I start to think on it, this is Mama’s guitar. This was my mama’s favorite.”
    â€œI’m just a pore wayfaring stranger,
    Traveling through this world of woe.
    And there’s no sickness, no toil, no trouble,
    In that fair land to which I go.
    I’m going there to see my mother.
    I’m going there no more to roam.
    I’m just a’going over Jordan.
    I’m just a’going over home.”
    Granny got quiet and I guess she was thinking about her mother. I couldn’t bear to think of Granny moving on. And apparently there were five mournful ballads to one funny one. I decided supper was in order to change the mood.
    â€œI’d sure like me some cornbread, child.”
    â€œOkay, Granny. You rest and I’ll make it.” Flipping through the old cookbook, I found a greasy piece of tablet paper with Granny’s corn-bread recipe. I was surprised to find it written down. One egg, one cup buttermilk, one-half cup cornmeal. One teaspoon sugar, one of salt, and two of baking powder. One tablespoon of bacon grease or oil. I jumped to find Granny peering over my shoulder as I beat up the quick-bread mixture.
    â€œNow you take the cornbread skillet. Use only this one.” Granny pulled an iron skillet from the bottom shelf that looked as old as her guitar. It was probably her mother’s, too, so I didn’t ask. “Melt some bacon drippings in it while the oven heats.”
    â€œI lit the oven, Granny.” Every time I did, it scared me. You had to turn on the gas, hold a flaming match inside near the jet, and wait till you got a big ker-phooomph . I was sure I’d get singed hair or eyebrows every time.
    â€œWhen the fat’s a’ sizzling, you pour in the batter. That’s the way.”
    I jumped back as the bacon grease splattered and sizzled.
    â€œNow put the skillet in the oven. When the top is set you turn it over to brown the other side. Then don’t ever wash the skillet, child. Hit’ll ruin it.”
    â€œDon’t wash it?” I’d never heard of such a thing. I cringed.
    â€œJist wipe it out. Hit’s seasoned good so the bread won’t stick.”
    If you say so, Granny , I said to myself. I heated a can of black-eyed peas that Granny had pulled off the grocery shelf while some pork chops fried. If I had our microwave oven I’d bake potatoes, but since it was too late, I’d settle for a can of creamed corn, heated with butter.
    â€œI always put some bacon grease in the peas too.” Granny sat at the table waiting, as if she could hardly wait for some of her favorite food. The meal went