Beulah Land

Beulah Land

By Cathryn Keller

The blazing midday sun relentlessly beats on my head as I struggle to pull the stubborn weeds that dot the cracked sidewalk. I am part of a team of volunteers this “Make a Difference Day, 2023”, and our assignment is the one-block area surrounding the First Baptist Church and its neighbors, rickety shotgun houses that lean drunkenly on crumbling cinder blocks. From the open door of the nearby old red brick church, a tremulous voice can be heard accompanying the tinny piano. Hearing the familiar words, I am transported from the inner-city street with its cracked asphalt, litter-strewn empty lots and broken, staring windows to a little home on a tree-lined corner in southeast Texas.

Beulah Land, I’m longing for you

And some day on thee I’ll stand

Where my home shall be eternal

Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land

           My Grandma’s soprano voice, high and clear, warbles through my dream-filled sleep to wake me. It is a bright Sunday morning, August, 1977 and I am ten years old. Golden sun streams in through the faded chintz curtains. The bed I wake in is sturdy and brown and covered in soft, worn sheets and quilts. I am in my very favorite place on earth with some of my very favorite people. Languidly I stretch and snuggle down for a few more minutes in my warm cocoon. It is early morning, and my nose tells me that my grandma is frying sausage. Soon she will use the grease to make the milk gravy that will cover her homemade buttermilk biscuits; of the many gravy variations in her repertoire, this is my favorite. In addition to biscuits and gravy, there will be fig preserves, sliced tomatoes from Grandpa’s garden, and scrambled eggs. Sunday mornings at my grandparent’s home in southeast Texas always begin this way. My grandma, in her faded housecoat and slippers, hair in the rollers my Auntie M. put in the night before, will be standing by the stove with a fork in her hand singing her favorite hymns. Coffee waits, hot and strong, in the old Mr. Coffee on the pink Formica countertop to be poured in the brown stoneware mugs. My grandpa, with his glasses perched on his narrow nose can be found reading the local newspaper, The Silsbee Bee, at the table that had belonged to his parents. As a boy, he’d sat at this same worn, rough-hewn table with his six brothers doing homework by lamplight.

           When I can sleep no longer and my mouth is watering from the smell of biscuits and sausage, I leave the warm room with its familiar furnishings and head to the kitchen. My grandpa throws his strong arm around my waist as I enter the cozy, cluttered room. “Good morning, hon! Did you have sweet dreams?” my grandma calls from the stove. Contentment and warmth wash over me as I bask in their complete attention and love. Pulling out one of the mismatched wooden chairs from its place under the thumb-tacked bank calendar, I sit down and settle in for breakfast. There’s the crochet table runner made by my great-grandma, the brown tea pitcher with its faded blue stripes, the worn black Bible and my grandpa’s ever-present Kodak all cluttering the  hundred-year-old table’s scarred surface.

           My grandma bustles around us, setting the table with mismatched plates and cutlery, old jelly jar glasses filled with milk, butter it its glass dish and platters of steaming food. After she sits beside me grabbing my hand to fold in her large warm one, Grandpa pushes his glasses up on his nose and begins the prayer, earnestly thanking God for the food and asking His blessings on the day ahead. After the amen, I slather butter and my Grandma’s homemade fig preserves on one biscuit and douse another in the creamy, peppery gravy. Always a big eater, I relish these meals at my grandparents’ table. Time slows as we enjoy each bite, and help ourselves to seconds (and thirds!). “Did I ever tell you the story about your daddy and the cow?” my grandpa asks. The answer is yes, a thousand times, but I answer, “No sir,” so I can hear it again. My grandpa is a born storyteller, and as one of seven boys, he had to learn early to tell a good one to be heard in the din of the tiny home where he grew up. The story of my daddy and the cow is told once again, with a few embellishments thrown in for good measure. I laugh at all the right places, and watch Grandpa’s face light up with the telling.

           All too soon, the black and white clock above the white enamel sink tells us that it is high time to finish breakfast, rinse the dishes and get ready for church. A last gulp of milk and bite of biscuit and my plate is whisked away by Grandma. She smooths down my straight, dark-brown hair with her soft hand as she turns toward the sink, already beginning to quietly sing the next verse.

I’m kind of homesick for a country

Where I’ve never been before

No sad goodbyes will there be spoken

For time won’t matter anymore

           “You about through with that section? I’m about to call this one.” The team leader’s words jolt me out of my reverie. As I straighten and turn, I am suddenly aware of the tears filling my eyes. I am back on the scorching city sidewalk, a pile of wilting weeds beside me, and the beginning of a sunburn stinging my bare shoulders. The woman in front of me is eyeing me with kindness in her eyes.  “I was just remembering my grandparents,” I say, smiling with the words. She gives me a pat and turns to round up the rest of the team. Hugging my memory to myself like a sweet secret whispered in my ear, I hurry to catch up. I can almost hear my grandma say, “Well, time it do march on!”

Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land