It Must Be Jelly, 'Cause Jam Don't Shake Like That!

by Joe Finnerty
I learned how to make grape jelly by observing as my mother made her one and only batch in 1935, a few days after my eighth birthday.  She washed and boiled grapes in sugared water, then strained the contents through cheesecloth before pouring the liquid nectar into jars which she covered with a thin layer of paraffin and then set on a large rectangular tray to cool.  She put the tray on a kitchen chair while cleaning up the stove and assorted pots.  The tray extended past the edge of the chair by about six inches, I later concluded.  

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When the cooking lesson ended, I went to my bedroom and began playing with my rubber band gun.  Every kid on my block had one.  Made from orange crates, they fired cardboard projectiles with the flick of a thumb.  I ran out of ammo and went back to the kitchen to cut up some more pieces.  Unwittingly, I sat down on the kitchen chair now occupied by the jelly tray.  As I fell to the floor, jar after jar flipped over my head, catapulted into space.  In a flash, warm liquefied jelly covered me from head to toe.   

My mother, normally a loving and kind hearted woman, yanked me up, spanked me, marched me back to my room and tossed me on the bed where I lay sobbing and sticky for many hours, long past dinnertime.  After what seemed like an eternity, my big brother came into the room and tried to console me.  Finally, I calmed down and stopped weeping.  

“Are you hungry?’

“Yes,” I admitted.  

"Would you like a jelly sandwich?"     

The very thought of eating what I had been wearing for some two hours started me off on another hysterical outburst.  To this day, the sight of grape jelly frequently brings this episode in my life to mind, the occasion of my only parental spanking. 

Tell me the truth: Was I an abused kid, or what? 

Welcome!

This site is dedicated to our Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and dear family friends who have made our lives so rich. 

I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without the loving comfort of my Grandma’s lap, or my Grandpa’s rib-cracking bear hugs, and how he smelled of fresh tobacco. Grandma Sophie’s pronunciation of “oranjuice.” Or my Grandma G’s countless cooking lessons, always with a healthy life lesson mixed in. I wouldn’t trade those memories for the world. Grandma G is 90 now, and for my other grandparents, memories are all we have.

We can learn so much from their experiences; the hardships they endured, and the way things had to be done in earlier times...I complain about my tiny laundry room in the garage, and then I remember my Grandmother telling us about washing cloth diapers by hand, wringing them out, and hanging them up to dry in freezing temperatures. 

Then I think, OK, maybe it’s not so bad. 

But the goal of this site is to get our beloved Senior relatives and friends to share their own stories, in their own words, before those words are gone. 

This is a community effort! We want to hear from you! Seniors: are you a war veteran? Did you grow up on a farm? Have a paper route? Lose a love? Run a family business? 

We don’t need your full biography, but a short story - think about your conversations around the dinner table that start with the phrase “Do you remember the time...?”

If you are not a senior, we invite you to interview your FOP (Favorite Old Person) and contribute what they have to say.

For information on how to contribute, see our How It Works page.

Welcome to this fabulous new venture. We can’t wait to hear from you!