If a Cookie Jar Could Talk

Here I sit on a kitchen counter. I no longer hold cookies as I once did. I serve a different purpose now, a purpose so much more important than holdin’ cookies. Occasionally I see a look of longing from Sandy, the young woman who I now belong to. This same young lady, I have watched grow from a beautiful child into a fine young woman. Sometimes in her look, I can feel a yearnin’ to know all the things that I’ve witnessed, and if I could, I would tell her.

I would tell her how some time back in the 1940’s I was made in a factory, as were many, many more cookie jars just like me; none, any more or less remarkable than the one made before or after. The thing that made each cookie jar unique had nothing to do with any physical differences between us, but rather in our destinations.

I ended up goin’ to the home of an older couple, Joseph Nolen and his wife Nancy Ann Chandler Nolen. This couple lived in a small house tucked into a bend on Moren Road in London, Kentucky. Joseph was a Holiness preacher. He and Nancy Ann had strong beliefs and spent a lot of time prayin’, talkin’ to the Lord.

Joseph and Nancy Ann had several children who were all married and startin’ families of their own by the time I got to know them. Their sons Noby and Bill, and their daughter Cleo all lived nearby in London, so I saw them and their families comin’ and goin’ often. Their son Boyd lived in Teges, Kentucky which was several miles away. Daughters Maggie and Addie, and son John and their families lived in the Cincinnati, Ohio area. Those families who lived a piece away would visit Joseph and Nancy Ann with their families when they could, but distance did not allow them to be as much a presence as the families of Noby, Bill, and Cleo. Transportation was often by foot, mule, horse or wagon back then. Oh some folks had automobiles, but they were not as common as they would sure get later.

Joe and Nancy were known as Papaw and Mamaw to their grandchildren. Sometime in the later ’40s, Joe and Nancy Ann moved to an older house down the hill, just a little ways from the home I knew. Their daughter Cleo and her husband Neil Allen moved into Joe and Nancy Ann’s house.

Somehow, when Joe and Nancy Ann moved, I was left behind. I suppose they knew Cleo was startin’ a family and would have young’ uns hungry for cookies. Well, I sat for many a year on top of Cleo’s refrigerator and I saw a lot of things. Cleo and Neil’s family grew. First, came a beautiful baby girl named JoAnn, and before long JoAnn had two beautiful sisters; Barbara and Brenda. The three girls were followed by three boys; Ray David, Willie Neil and Arlin Keith. With each child that was born, that little house got a little more chaotic. Sometimes it seemed that a continuous string of folks was runnin’ in and out of that little house; the children, cousins, uncles, aunts, Mamaw and Papaw. All the while, I sat there atop Cleo’s fridge. I suppose that bein’ on top of the fridge should’ve been a deterrent to the children eatin’ too many cookies before their supper. But that kitchen had a kitchen table, and around that kitchen table were kitchen chairs. Those young’ uns sure knew how to pull one of those chairs over, climb up on top of it, and reach into this old cookie jar to retrieve a sweet treat. One of those young’ uns was Sandy’s dad Ronnie Nolen. I can’t tell you how many times I “breathed” a breath of relief when my lid returned to its place without bein’ dropped by the rushed hand of one of those young’ uns. But, I gotta tell you, I’m still sittin’ pretty nearly 70 years from when I was made, and I’m in mighty fine shape, if I do say so myself.

But back to Cleo’s fridge….I witnessed many things from atop her fridge. I grew to know that Cleo was a very loved and respected woman. In many ways, she was the rock of the family. When her brother Boyd lost his wife Rachel, he had seven young children to care for. Cleo and Neil provided a home where all of those nieces and nephews could visit and feel well-loved and welcome. So many folks were loved and welcomed to that little home on Moren Road.

Anyway, I felt the love that lived in that house. I saw the births of Cleo and Neil’s children and the joy that those births brought with them. I was there as those young’ uns grew up. I was there for first dates, the gettin’ of drivers’ licenses, the thrill of first cars, graduations, the excitement of first jobs. I bore witness to so many of the joyous occasions of life; why JoAnn even married her Bill at her Mom and Dad’s house. But I also witnessed the sad occasions, the sadness that death brings; first with Papaw Joseph’s death in '55 followed by Mamaw Nancy Ann’s only two years later. Cleo’s brother Bill would die in 1960. And then I witnessed the heartbreak of Cleo and her family when Neil passed away in 1967 just a few days after their youngest child Arlin’s 8th birthday.

JoAnn was married and on her own, but Cleo still had those other five young’ uns to be there for, and that Cleo seemed to have an inner strength in her as big as that heart of hers. She finished raisin’ those remaining five children and they grew into fine young folks. Before I left Cleo’s home, just like their sister JoAnn, Barbara, Ray and Willie would fall in love, marry and start families of their own. Cleo’s home continued to be a hub for all kinds of family; children and their spouses, grandbabies, siblings, nieces, nephews…. They all loved and were loved and welcomed by Cleo. Sometimes it seemed that that little house on Moren Road would just have to bust at the seams, but it never did. That house seemed to be like Cleo’s heart, always room for one more…or two, or three.

Cleo’s brother Boyd’s children still visited her, and of course, they were havin’ families of their own too. It was sometime in the early ’70s, I believe, when Sandy’s dad Ronnie was once again visitin’ his dear Aunt Cleo. He had married and Sandy had been born by then. Ronnie and Cleo were sittin’ at Cleo’s kitchen table reminiscin’ about old times when I caught Ronnie’s eye. He started telling Aunt Cleo how he remembered pullin’, perhaps the very chair he was sittin’ in, over beside the fridge. He told her how he would climb up onto the chair, take my lid off and reach in to retrieve a cookie. He told Cleo how precious those memories of bein’ at her home with her and her family had been to him. Aunt Cleo stood up from the table, walked over to the fridge and took me down. She got a dish towel that hung over the handle of the stove and gently wiped a little dust off of me and handed me to Ronnie. Ronnie grinned like a goose, hugged Aunt Cleo, thanked her, and told her that he would take care, really good care of me.

And Ronnie kept his word. He carefully transported me back to Dayton, Ohio where he placed me in a glass-fronted cabinet. I wasn’t used to hold cookies any longer. I didn’t have to fear bein’ broken by little hands. I was kept in that cabinet and Ronnie told the story to his daughter Sandy and later to his son Joey, named after his great grandpa Joseph Nolen, of how he had gotten cookies from me when he had been just a boy.

And there in Ronnie and Linda’s house, I continued to bear witness to the lives of those who lived around me. I witnessed losses, and I witnessed gains. I saw the joys as well as the sorrows that a family knows. I saw Ronnie and Linda go through a divorce, and I saw Ronnie marry again to that sweet Becky Nicely. Of course, Sandy was there, so she doesn’t need to hear those tales. And like all of those children I have known, Sandy and her brother Joey grew up. Sandy got married and moved into her own house. After a while, Ronnie gave me to Sandy, and yet again I have born witness.

And that is the story of how I come to sit on this counter in a kitchen, Sandy’s kitchen. That is how I come to see looks of longin’ from Sandy; looks that make me think that she wishes that I could tell her all of the things I have seen. And although I’m not used to hold cookies anymore, I think I serve a greater purpose. Instead of holdin’ cookies, I hold memories, and I serve as a link for four generations of a family. That family is perhaps not remarkable in any way, just as I was not a remarkable cookie jar in any way. But through the generations, I have seen this family rejoice at the blessings that life has brought its way. I have seen this family face the losses it was dealt with fortitude and faith. I have felt the love known in this family and I look forward to what I will bear witness to in the years to come.

You know, I can’t help but think that I am one lucky cookie jar.