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velvetpageThis story is so old, I don't actually remember it myself. It comes from family history, because I was too young when these things happened. I have a very, very vague, sensory memory of a light-filled apartment, spotless, and a white-haired old lady in Salvation Army uniform. If this memory is correct, this lady was wearing a high collar and a bonnet several years after the new uniforms replaced them.
My parents used to be Salvation Army officers. They went into Training College in Toronto when I was a newborn, and graduated when I was two. I met Piet there, but that's a different story. In any case, officers are different from pastors in most denominations in that their assignments are given to them by the organization, rather than being called to a specific place. My parents' first appointment was to a small town in Eastern Ontario, in the Ottawa Valley, called Smiths Falls.
Those of you familiar with that part of the world may remember that Smiths Falls is the home of the Hershey Chocolate Factory. The town lies about 45 minutes outside Ottawa and about the same distance more or less north of Kingston. It is, and to some extent always has been, a rather depressed little place. The house we lived in there, owned by the Salvation Army, was a huge barn of a house, impossible to heat properly, containing six bedrooms, a formal dining room, a big farmer's kitchen, and bats in the attic.
My parents came into the corps there to find a total disaster in most important respects. The building was brand-new, and had been built on the premise that God provides for his people. The corps had no money, no assets, and not much way to get either. My parents took the bull by the horns, cleaned up the membership roll which hadn't been touched other than to add to it in at least twenty years, turned the old, outgrown building into a thriving thrift shop, and got donations from people who had never given before and probably haven't since. To do all this, they needed an army of volunteers. One of these was Mrs. Swaddling.
She was an elderly lady on social assistance, a widow for ten years before we moved there, and absolutely the sweetest woman ever to grace this planet. She could, so the story goes, charm money from a rock, or more importantly, a banker, and did it in service to her God. She was a true Christian, giving until it hurt, loving others with every fibre of her being, and she adopted our young family to replace the grandchildren who lived too far away to be spoiled adequately. She couldn't drive, had never been in an airplane, and had never finished high school. But boy, could she whip up a church supper!
Church suppers in those days were a huge affair. Everyone involved with the church came to them, and the standard dishes were always served at them. My mother made her Hawaiian salad, someone else would bring scalloped potatoes, someone else a broccoli salad. Mrs. Swaddling would bring her stew. The original recipe calls for six pounds of stewing beef. Six. Also five pounds of potatoes, and a whole bag of frozen corn. You get the idea. On my mother's twenty-seven-year-old recipe card, under serving size, are written the words, "an Army." It was meant quite literally.
My mother got pregnant with my brother pretty much right off the bat upon moving to Smiths Falls. My sister came barely two years later. Both times, when the time came, my parents called a member of the church who lived near Mrs. Swaddling. The member drove that lady to our house, and she made stew and played with me, and later my brother, while the next sibling was entering the world. I wasn't even aware of this when it was my sister's turn to be born, because my mother went into labour after I went to bed. I woke up the next morning and there was sweet Mrs. Swaddling, making oatmeal and peeling carrots for her stew. We went to visit her often, because by the time my sister was born, she needed regular care. She adopted us, and my mother adopted her right back, seeing to it that groceries were purchased, that she had a ride to the supermarket, that her bills were paid on time. My mother tells me that one of my first clear names for a non-family member in Smiths Falls was, "Sadding!" as I went running up to her at church. She replaced the grandparents who lived in Hamilton and St. Catharines, at least in part.
The Salvation Army was informed by my mother's doctor in June of 1980 that they could not expect a woman eight months pregnant to move until after her baby was born. So instead of moving in June, before Alanna, we moved in September, six weeks after her birth. (The Salvation Army hasn't always taken good care of its own people.) Three weeks after Alanna's birth, Mrs. Swaddling failed to come to church one Sunday morning. My parents didn't even go home to check on the Sunday roast; they drove straight to her apartment after the service. My mother stayed in the car with the three of us while my dad went in to check on her.
Her funeral was the last one Dad did in Smiths Falls. Half the town was there.
Twenty-four years later, Mrs. Swaddling's Stew is still a staple of family meals. I don't make it that often, because it requires baking for about four hours before dinner time. I've tried it in the crock pot, and it worked, but I don't trust the wiring in this house enough to leave my crock pot plugged in all day while I'm not here. But when my mom found out Elizabeth and I were coming for dinner, she spent an hour making MSS before going to bed this morning, so it would be ready when we got here and she got up. It has undergone a few changes in its time, but it is still the meaty, tomatoey, mushroomy, veggie-filled tummy filler that it always was. And my kids will always call it Mrs. Swaddling's stew.
My parents used to be Salvation Army officers. They went into Training College in Toronto when I was a newborn, and graduated when I was two. I met Piet there, but that's a different story. In any case, officers are different from pastors in most denominations in that their assignments are given to them by the organization, rather than being called to a specific place. My parents' first appointment was to a small town in Eastern Ontario, in the Ottawa Valley, called Smiths Falls.
Those of you familiar with that part of the world may remember that Smiths Falls is the home of the Hershey Chocolate Factory. The town lies about 45 minutes outside Ottawa and about the same distance more or less north of Kingston. It is, and to some extent always has been, a rather depressed little place. The house we lived in there, owned by the Salvation Army, was a huge barn of a house, impossible to heat properly, containing six bedrooms, a formal dining room, a big farmer's kitchen, and bats in the attic.
My parents came into the corps there to find a total disaster in most important respects. The building was brand-new, and had been built on the premise that God provides for his people. The corps had no money, no assets, and not much way to get either. My parents took the bull by the horns, cleaned up the membership roll which hadn't been touched other than to add to it in at least twenty years, turned the old, outgrown building into a thriving thrift shop, and got donations from people who had never given before and probably haven't since. To do all this, they needed an army of volunteers. One of these was Mrs. Swaddling.
She was an elderly lady on social assistance, a widow for ten years before we moved there, and absolutely the sweetest woman ever to grace this planet. She could, so the story goes, charm money from a rock, or more importantly, a banker, and did it in service to her God. She was a true Christian, giving until it hurt, loving others with every fibre of her being, and she adopted our young family to replace the grandchildren who lived too far away to be spoiled adequately. She couldn't drive, had never been in an airplane, and had never finished high school. But boy, could she whip up a church supper!
Church suppers in those days were a huge affair. Everyone involved with the church came to them, and the standard dishes were always served at them. My mother made her Hawaiian salad, someone else would bring scalloped potatoes, someone else a broccoli salad. Mrs. Swaddling would bring her stew. The original recipe calls for six pounds of stewing beef. Six. Also five pounds of potatoes, and a whole bag of frozen corn. You get the idea. On my mother's twenty-seven-year-old recipe card, under serving size, are written the words, "an Army." It was meant quite literally.
My mother got pregnant with my brother pretty much right off the bat upon moving to Smiths Falls. My sister came barely two years later. Both times, when the time came, my parents called a member of the church who lived near Mrs. Swaddling. The member drove that lady to our house, and she made stew and played with me, and later my brother, while the next sibling was entering the world. I wasn't even aware of this when it was my sister's turn to be born, because my mother went into labour after I went to bed. I woke up the next morning and there was sweet Mrs. Swaddling, making oatmeal and peeling carrots for her stew. We went to visit her often, because by the time my sister was born, she needed regular care. She adopted us, and my mother adopted her right back, seeing to it that groceries were purchased, that she had a ride to the supermarket, that her bills were paid on time. My mother tells me that one of my first clear names for a non-family member in Smiths Falls was, "Sadding!" as I went running up to her at church. She replaced the grandparents who lived in Hamilton and St. Catharines, at least in part.
The Salvation Army was informed by my mother's doctor in June of 1980 that they could not expect a woman eight months pregnant to move until after her baby was born. So instead of moving in June, before Alanna, we moved in September, six weeks after her birth. (The Salvation Army hasn't always taken good care of its own people.) Three weeks after Alanna's birth, Mrs. Swaddling failed to come to church one Sunday morning. My parents didn't even go home to check on the Sunday roast; they drove straight to her apartment after the service. My mother stayed in the car with the three of us while my dad went in to check on her.
Her funeral was the last one Dad did in Smiths Falls. Half the town was there.
Twenty-four years later, Mrs. Swaddling's Stew is still a staple of family meals. I don't make it that often, because it requires baking for about four hours before dinner time. I've tried it in the crock pot, and it worked, but I don't trust the wiring in this house enough to leave my crock pot plugged in all day while I'm not here. But when my mom found out Elizabeth and I were coming for dinner, she spent an hour making MSS before going to bed this morning, so it would be ready when we got here and she got up. It has undergone a few changes in its time, but it is still the meaty, tomatoey, mushroomy, veggie-filled tummy filler that it always was. And my kids will always call it Mrs. Swaddling's stew.
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Date: 2004-12-17 06:23 am (UTC)I love those foods that have a background...that have more memories than a lot of other things that should conjure up memories.
I love foods with proper names...you know, the name is attributed to someone. I think, growing up, we had a lot of Oma's Soup, Oma's salad...and others (my brain isn't quite up to par at the moment...with a husband in pain, I get no sleep!).
Does this really occur much anymore? I think the thing I eat the most now with a name on it, is "General Tsao's Chicken!" You think I could convince my kids that he is a family member? Maybe an old SA friend from the east??
I also don't think that I will ever have my name put on a food, Craig will....not me. Unless it's Anney's Kraft Dinner. :)
Have a great weekend, and we'll see you guys next week!
Good night!