Here is my submission for this week’s Stories from the Jukebox prompt, Mountain Jam by the Allman Brothers Band, chosen by Bob over at Long Live the ABB.
The windows were starting to steam over. Grace leaned against the counter as Nin dropped the jars into the boiling pot. She hadn’t always been interested in helping make the end of season jams—as a matter of fact, for a long time she scoffed at the idea of anything so old fashioned. But these last few years she’d started returning to Preservation Mountain, Alabama, to visit her grandmother and great aunt to learn about jam making—and maybe a few other life lessons.
These women took it seriously, making these jams. They entered the best batch in the Preservation-Fest Jam Contest every year. The Mountain Jam had always been Grace’s favorite. Every year it was a little different, depending on what was left—the last fruits of the summer jammed up with a little pumpkin, always pumpkin. They’d called it The Smith Girls’ Mountain Jam in their family since forever.
They weren’t mountain people exactly. Round about the stateline, the mountains softened into foothills and lake water, Appalachia still brushing against them—close enough to preserve some of the echoes. Gossip and ghost stories held court around kitchen tables still.
“Sweet Pea, get the sorghum from the cabinet.”
Grace wrinkled her nose as she walked over to the low cupboard. When she and her cousins were little, her grandmother had installed chalkboards on the inside of the doors. The children would sit there and draw pictures and play school while Nanny cooked dinner.
The dark syrup had looked like the inside of Nin’s special pecan pie to little Grace and she could not control her blossoming sweet tooth. Somehow she forced the lid off—cemented on by the syrup—stuck in her little index finger, and snuck a taste.
It tasted nothing like she thought sweetness was supposed to taste like.
It tasted earthy, dark, and musty.
And a little complicated.
She wanted to cry. Wanted to run to her Nanny over the syrupy betrayal. But she wasn’t supposed to have sweets without permission and somehow, even after tasting it, she figured this qualified.
Nanny chuckled as grown up Grace made her death march toward the cupboard. Nin shook her head as she reached for her fourth cigarette today.
“It doesn’t taste as bad as you remember, you know it?”
Grace turned on her heel. “You know?”
“I always knew, hon. A poker face, you ain’t got. You nare your grandfather, rest his soul.”
Nanny stepped on the stool her late ex-husband had made for her and stretched to reach the upper cupboard.
“If you knew, why didn’t you stop me?” Grace asked as she set the syrup jar on the counter.
“Because sometimes you have to taste it yourself to understand.” Nanny said, reaching past the flour to the very back of the dark shelf. “There it is”
She pulled out a mason jar filled with a clear, amber-tinted liquid—a vanilla bean split in two, floating there with quiet purpose. She nodded toward the sorghum.
“Give it a little taste.”
Grace’s visceral reaction to the very thought made the older women laugh.
“What if she double dog dared you?” Nin asked her, snubbing out her cigarette.
Grace rolled her eyes as she lifted the lid and peeked inside, not sure what she expected to see, really. Her pinky dabbed at the top of the thick syrup. It resisted.
I should probably take note of that, she thought, forcing a bit onto her finger.
She gave it a sniff and tossed a doubtful glance toward Nin and Nanny. Bringing her pinky to her lips—she put the tiniest taste on the tip of her tongue. She thought about it. It wasn’t bad. It was actually… pretty good.
Her eyes widened as she looked up.
“See there? You grew into it.”
“But what’s this?” Grace held up the mason jar toward the window. It was still hot as hades, but the world had already gone golden. The light shone through the liquid as she turned it in the sunbeams.
“You ain’t growed into that yet,” Nanny said, swiping the jar from Grace’s hands.
“Sister, neither have you.” Nin coughed a smoker’s laugh, side-eyeing the jar.
Then she muttered, “Your grandmother’s never had a sip in her life but she trusts Earline McCreedy’s ‘shine over store-bought vanilla every time.”
Nanny sniffed. “Earline’s been supplying me since before I don’t know when.”
“Only because she got paid in jam and Christmas cake,” Nin muttered. She looked up at Grace. “She kept your mother and aunt when Nan worked nights. Put up a closed sign. The men in town grumbled, but she wouldn’t budge.”
“Nanny,” Grace reached for the jar, but her grandmother kept it just out of reach. “I am far older than ‘of age’ as you well know.”
“It ain’t for drinking.”
Nin winked at Grace. “The vanilla bean makes it morally acceptable.”
“You hush,” Nanny swatted at her sister, pouring the last of a hot pepper jelly batch into a mason jar.
Grace retrieved more jars from the pot on the stove and set them out. The next batch up was the Mountain Jam—pears, figs, and, of course, pumpkin this year.
“Pears keep well,” Nanny told her.
Grace reached for a spoon from the drawer. Nin stopped her.
“Never metal, sweet pea,” she said, handing her a spoon made from Red Cherry wood. “Make sure you scrape the bottom as you stir.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Grace dragged the spoon through the jam every now and again to test the consistency, like they had taught her.
Nanny told Grace she’d know when it had jammed up. “Just look at the back of your spoon.”
Nin took another cigarette break. “You know Mr. Fillmore is entering his peach preserves again this year.”
The winner of the jam contest got a gaudy blue ribbon, fifty dollars, and their name on the courthouse plaque.
“I heard he’s adding bourbon,” she continued. “He wants his name on that Preservation Wall before Jesus calls roll.”
“Everyone deserves to leave a legacy,” Nanny said, skimming more foam from the simmering jam.
The kitchen went silent for a beat. Grace stirred, counter clockwise or the jam won’t jam, Nin told her. Grace wasn’t entirely convinced the jam cared which direction she stirred, but for some reason she didn’t want to challenge the theory.
After they poured up the jam, Nanny almost whispered, “This is our entry.”
She didn’t always enter the Mountain Jam. The recipe changed every year and she liked to play it safe when it came to the contest.
“You’re gonna break ole Fillmore’s heart, Nan.”
“I might want to be preserved, too, Nin.” Nanny started cleaning up, not that there was much to do—one thing she’d always taught Grace was to clean up as you go.
She paused, her hand coming down near Grace’s as they both wiped at the counter.
“You’ve been quiet about that fella you met a while back.”
Grace kept her eyes fixed on her dish towel.
“We went out again last night,” Grace smiled. “We started off antiquing, then got some dinner.”
She was suddenly very concerned about a spot of jam that had dried on the counter.
“And. Well. We didn’t want the night to end yet, so we went for ice cream after. He likes mint chocolate, too.” She looked up for a half a second and tried not to grin. “Then we found a mini-golf place that was still open and went around twice.”
She looked up at her grandmother.
“But then I told him I had to get home and get packed because I was leaving at the butt crack. You know how I hate driving up this mountain after dark.”
Nin and Nanny both nodded.
“And he said, ‘let’s just listen to this one song first’… and Nanny… it ended up being a 34-minute Allman Brothers’ song!”
Her grandmother cocked her head and looked her over. Heat rushed to Grace’s cheeks.
Nin walked over to the kitchenette table and pulled out one of the yellow vinyl chairs. It squeaked as she reached for another cigarette. She looked at Grace over her glasses.
“You make sure he treats you right.”
Grace sat down and smoothed the plastic checkered tablecloth. She nodded.
Nanny sat down across from her. “Because Lort help, if he don’t and you already love him.”
Grace looked at them. It struck her then that these two women had once been young enough to ruin their lives over love, too. There had been whole chapters before she’d ever entered the story. She looked at her grandmother waving away her sister’s cigarette smoke. This was a woman who’d loved something fierce.
Grace saw Nin nod in agreement as the sisters’ eyes met. She wasn’t sure if Nin had lived it herself or had just been witness.
Nin put out her cigarette. And then, the first jar pinged.
Sweet Thing — Van Morrison
If We Were Vampires — Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit
Angel from Montgomery — Bonnie Raitt & John Prine
Copperhead Road — Steve Earle
Mountain Jam — The Allman Brothers Band
Y’all. We’ve been featuring my collection of stories, Opera Rose and Other Devotions, over on Southern Writers Guild. I’d love it if you’d check out my latest installment, Headstone.
And check out our previous features, as well:
First Light by Rick West.
And The Ugly Duckling by Hank Cotton.
So I had no idea people were adding audio recordings of their stories! But I knew you were giving readings of your work, so I thought, I'll give it a listen. Wow! It brought the tale to life in a way I wasn't expecting. You have a wonderful reading voice, good enough for radio even. I thoroughly enjoyed sitting back in a mini heatwave in London and just letting the warmth of this reading wash over me. I so enjoyed this. Thank you for sharing.
well done!