JOYRIDE III

The spring is the season when I feature the best student work from my essay class at Atlantic Cape Community College. This week’s column is by Deidre Townsend. She lives in Mays Landing and is the mom of two teenage children.
Every Saturday evening, my two younger sisters, brother, and I would race to our burgundy Dodge Caravan. As soon as one of our parents unlocked the door for us, we began pushing and shoving each other, trying to grab the seat closest to the bay window.
Going to our Grandmother’s house for dinner was always something that we looked forward to as kids. Thinking back, I’m sure it was a pleasure for my mother too because that meant that she didn’t have to cook that night.
My grandmother owned a big green house in Egg Harbor Township. Once we pulled into the yard, barely giving our dad time to stop the vehicle, the racing began yet again. One of us would yank open the sliding door of the van and all of us, with the exception of my parents, took off in full sprint to the front door yelling, “Last one in is a rotten egg!”
Once the front door of the house was opened, I would try to guess what my grandmother had cooked by throwing my head back, and inhaling deeply. I wanted to take in all of the mouth-watering aromas lingering in the air. Homemade chicken and dumplings with collard greens, along with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with pecans for dessert, was my absolute favorite.
Soon the house would be full with all of my cousins, aunts, and uncles. After dinner, the cousins (all eight of us) would get together in the living room away from the adults. While there, we would talk about what we had done in school that week, what person we had a crush on, make up crazy songs, and tell corny jokes.
I was 12-years-old when I brought a couple of my friends with me over to her house for a barbecue. The living room was where all of the alcoholic beverages were kept. On one occasion, my friends and I curiously eyed the long, brown table lined with various types of liquor. I had my friend Shirley on post as lookout, while I went straight for the oversized squirt bottle of vodka.
My grandma caught me as I was pouring some into a paper cup. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Nothing,” I replied. Shaking, I immediately put the cup down. She scolded me, and then walked back out of the room.
I was fearful the remainder of the night, waiting for my parents to come in yank me by my ear. However, Grandma never told my mom or dad what she witnessed. I was too scared to even think about touching alcohol again.
Her house holds many more secrets and fond memories from my youth, some of which we all have confessed to our parents, and some we haven’t. Even though she passed away in 1993, I still think of her often. It is because of her and the bonds she nurtured at her house that my family continues to remain very close. I hope that one day my home will become the new “Meeting Place.”
Keith Forrest is an assistant professor of communication at Atlantic Cape Community College. His late Mother Libby Demp Forrest Moore wrote the Joyride column for this newspaper for 20 years.