Grandma Lola’s House Rules

There are three things you didn’t do in Grandma Lola’s house, and she’d tell you straight as a preacher on Sunday–don’t stick your finger in an electric light socket, don’t stick your finger in a garbage disposal, and don’t ever stick your finger in her blackberry pies. The first two made sense to a ten-year-old like me, the summer of ’70, with my knees scuffed and my head full of mischief.

But that third rule? That was a temptation bigger than a revival tent.

Grandma Lola was a force, let me tell you. She was a Redwood stump, with a bun of dyed blonde hair pinned tight and eyes that could spot a lie before you thought it. Her kitchen in that little clapboard house outside Fortuna smelled of bacon grease and something holy—probably those pies.

Every June, she’d haul a bushel of blackberries from the market, her fingers stained purple as a preacher’s robe, and turn ‘em into pies that’d make you weep. Flaky crust, just the right tang, and a sweetness that hugged your soul. She’d set ‘em on the windowsill to cool, and I swear, the whole neighborhood knew better than to come sniffing.

One sticky afternoon, with the grasshoppers screaming and my cousin Steve egging me on, I thought I was slicker than a greased pig. Grandma was out back hanging laundry, her apron flapping like a flag.

Steve, who was fifteen and trouble in suspenders, whispered, “Bet you won’t swipe a taste.”

My mouth was watering just looking at that pie, its lattice crust golden as a sunrise. I figured one little swipe wouldn’t hurt. What’s a finger dip to a whole pie?

I crept to the windowsill, heart thumping like a jackrabbit. Checked for Grandma—clear.

Reaching out, quick as a minnow, and scooped a bit of that warm, jammy filling. Oh, pure heaven! But before I could lick my finger clean–a shadow fell over me.

Grandma Lola, hands on hips, looking like she’d caught me stealing from the collection plate, “Boy,” she said, voice low as thunder, “you just broke rule number three.”

I froze, purple evidence dripping down my hand and chin.

She didn’t whoop me, though I’d have preferred it. Instead, she sat me down at her scarred oak table, poured me some buttermilk, and told me the rules.

“They ain’t just to boss you,” she said, her eyes soft but serious. “They’re to keep you whole. Sockets shock, disposals chew, and pies—well, they’re for sharing, not sneaking.”

Then she cut me a proper slice, plate and all, and we ate together, the pie sweeter for her company.