Aunt Bertie was an icon in our community long ago.
She was lifted near to sainthood by the people there I know.
A woman for all seasons, but the autumn was her best.
She always wore a bonnet with an apron on her dress.
Now when it came to baking, no woman could compare,
Aunt Bertie took the ribbons at the local county fair.
There was once one exception when Aunt Bertie didn’t place.
If she knew I told this story, she would call it her disgrace.
She sent me out for apples from our orchard’s only tree
with the hopes of something special that she’d cook just for me.
I fetched my aunt the apples, helped her core them for the pot
which she put me watching closely ‘til the pan was boiling hot.
She took out about a dozen, left the rest on to boil
as she left them loosely covered with a piece of old tinfoil.
My senses ached for apple pie as I went to get the mail.
I fetched it back within the hour; Aunt Bertie looked so pale.
She was sitting at the table holding dearly to her chair.
When I asked if she was okay; I could tell she didn’t care.
She had taken up the apples, strained them out to stuff the goose.
Loving apple cider, she sat drinking up the juice.
Somehow the foil and condensate had liquored up the brew,
and she had drunk too much of it before she even knew.
I held her hand to steady her while helping her to bed,
then later brought the soda mix to ease her throbbing head.
As for the brew, I dumped it out, and cleaned up all the mess.
I’m the only one who knew the sin that she’d confess.
Years went by, we’d laugh at it, and call it stuffing glaze,
but it never earned a ribbon for the wall of Bertha Hayes.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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