My grandmother, Mae Segura Vaughn, of French and Spanish descent, struggled to speak English. I learned to translate French when I was very young, so I was able to understand and communicate with her. I taught her to write her name when I was ten.
A marvel and a brunette beauty, she wore dresses, earrings, and makeup every day. She never missed a weekly hair appointment. When she grew too feeble to venture out, I used bobbi pins and white papers to set her hair in pin curls and style it in her favorite do. Her dress up clothing featured neutral hued lined suits or dresses, matching hats and gloves, pearls or matching brooch and earrings, and a wool cashmere winter coat.
Mom Wick’s energy and determination were evident in the manner in which she presided as matriarch of our family. Extremely analytical and proficient, she invented recipes, whipped up seven course meals, canned foodstuffs, and became a gifted seamstress and dress designer.
My grandfather, Willie Wickliff Vaughn, used symbols and drawings on recipe cards to indicate measurements and ingredients for her special culinary concoctions. I marveled at the intricate steps she used to make Jambalaya or gumbo or her special confetti meatballs [boulettes-ground beef and pork stuffed with the trinity: onions, bell pepper, and celery.]Her parsley and onion top garden was located near the back door of her home along the red brick steps. Fresh herbs enhanced her cooking. She regularly delivered meals to needy relatives or friends.
Since she lived right next door to my parents, and I was the first grandchild, I developed an extremely close relationship with her. As a child I observed as she pulled a live chicken through a box nailed to a fence and summarily chopped off its head. That chicken when released squawked and ran around the yard until it dropped dead. She, with the aid of Mrs. Bob, a domestic hired to help with chores, dunked the chicken in boiling water and pulled feathers off until the chicken looked naked. I guess that’s what one would call fresh meat right off the farm.
But my grandparents did not live on a farm, although tenant farmers worked my grandparents’ farm off of Lake Dauterieve Road. They lived smack dab on Main Street in mid-Loreauville. No ordinances or covenants regulated barnyard activities. My grandfather’s barn, located behind his home, housed cows, chickens, an occasional pig, and squatter rabbit families in a fenced area. I remember him showing me how to hold infant rabbits that were as small as my tiny hand.
A cistern next to their home held fresh rain water used mostly for pure activities like washing special garments or watering plants. Even bottled tastes tainted as compared with pure rain water.
Mom Wick created the first microwave: boiling water in a Magnalite pot with a covered dish of food on top of the pot. When I attended summer classes at USL, I returned to her home to study in the afternoons after I dined on her delectable noon dinner.
Mom Wick’s sewing room ran along the entire side of her home. I called it the Glass porch because of the floor to ceiling windows. The walls were made of knotty pine recovered from a train wreck in Loreauville. She sewed baby clothing from flour sacks, Sunday dresses from exquisite fabrics, and elegant cocktail dresses from haute couture materials. We shopped for fabrics, patterns, and notions at quality fabric stores in Baton Rouge or at Heymann’s in Lafayette, fabric stores in New Iberia, or Granger’s in Loreauville.
Very early each morning, she and my grandfather recited the rosary in French as they listened to the rosary on the radio; I don’t ever remember them sleeping late, not even in their twilight years. They slept in double beds in a large bedroom with a fireplace. I doubt that they spent a night apart in their entire sixty year marriage. My grandmother took afternoon naps, and coffee klatched with my mom every day at 10:00 a.m. and again after naptime at 3:00.They sipped Mellow Joy Coffee laden with sugar and cream in demitasse cups.
Every Sunday Mom Wick prepared Sunday dinner after attending early morning mass. We feasted on fried or smothered chicken or chicken fricasse, roast, rice dressing, white rice, mashed potatoes, potato salad, sweet peas, corn, smothered cabbage, homemade bread and cake or pralines for dessert. Seasonal vegetables complemented the varied entrees. We ate organic food fresh from the farm. I seldom saw canned food in her kitchen. She baked cakes from scratch and glazed them with her special homemade icing. She secretly added yellow food coloring to boiled egg yolks to enhance the color of potato salad. Her chili sauce for hot dogs was scrumptious. As a special treat, she served homemade, churned ice cream, [the kind you freeze using ice, salt, and many turns of the wheel] when she served hot dogs. Her engagement photo, circa 1902, sits on a shelf above the stove in my kitchen.
A very spiritual person, Mom Wick worshipped at Sunday mass and believed in the power of praying to her favorite saints. Superstitions intrigued her. She warned me never to step on the sidewalk crack and to walk on the same side of a post or pole as she did. She admitted to me that when she was younger, she hung garlic across the back door of her home for protection against the Loup Garoux. Appearances and demeanor were extremely important to her. I never heard her raise her voice.
I watched her plant, propagate, and care for her many flowers and shrubs. Although she could not name all the plant varieties in her expansive yard, she instinctively knew landscaping and horticulture. In my favorite picture, she wears a floral gardening dress and a large sun hat and is seated on a swing canopied by a tall flowering shrub.
Mom Wick lived vicariously in my recollections to her about my teen activities. She loved to hear about my friends, their outfits, my dance partners, and my school experiences. I appeased her by reciting everything I could remember. When I became the mother of teenagers, I realized what a special relationship I had with my maternal grandmother. When my dates picked me up for the evening, Mom Wick stood on her front porch clutching her rosary as she watched me depart for the evening. Not until I became a mother and a grandparent did I understand the significance of her love and concern for me.
Living far away from her during most of my adult life was extremely difficult. Although I busied myself with family and career, she occupied my thoughts every time I cooked a meal, planted a garden, sewed a seam or dressed for the day. I wish I had told her more often how much I loved, respected and admired her and what an incredible influence she had on my life.
My career is over, and my life has changed drastically. Instead of basking in the joy of watching my children grow up and become independent, my grandchildren bring me a different kind of joy. I have more time to observe their little milestones, spend time reading to and entertaining them, and bother their parents with my wisdom about childrearing.
