The Spice of Life!

Twenty years ago my mother and I went back to Shubert, Nebraska to visit my Grandmother Ruby.  It was Memorial Day weekend and, after Sunday service, Ruby had to go and clean up the Welsh Cemetery, as she was superintendent.  So we raked the leaves, and swept the paths, and put up little flags on the grave of every veteran.  When, at last, we were done, Ruby took the opportunity to show us a few graves, like that of her great-grandfather, Henry Clay Christie, who had fought at Fort Donnellson, Pittsburg Landing, and the Siege of Vicksburg.

At some point, my mother commented to me, “When I die, I’ve donated my body to science but, after that, you could have a memorial service or something.”

“Mom, we’ve already made plans!” I answered enthusiastically, “When the doctors are though cutting you up, we’re going to have the scraps ground into sausage!”

My mother, being godless and essentially frightened of death, was appalled, but Ruby just asked, “What kind of spices are you going to use?”

“Why — dill, I suppose.  That’s Nell’s favorite spice.”

“Oh, use something stronger!”  Ruby insisted, “Nell always needed more spice!”