Spaghetti Sandwiches

I am often asked questions about my motivation and inspiration.  Interestingly, I watch many YouTube motivational videos and inspirational speakers talk about all the things that motivate and inspire them.  I really do enjoy them and have learned a great deal from their sharp minds and perspectives.  For the most part, they sound genuine and sincere.  They speak about people in their lives, lifechanging events, sports heroes, hardships, political leaders, and even superheroes that have helped shape their lives and way of thinking.  My interpretation of motivation is a little different and comes from some very personal sources. 

When my kids, Anna and Andrew were younger, I used to tell them stories about Grandma Evans, my dad’s mom, my grandmother, and their great grandmother.  Her name was Myrtle Johnson and she lived in an old house in Henderson, North Carolina, a small town northeast of the Raleigh-Durham area of the state and about three hours or so away from our home in High Point.  Her house was large and dingy.  It had curtains that were out of a 60’s horror movie. It was multiple stories and was filled with furniture from generations past.  There was really nothing new in the house.  I think it was that way for the entire time I knew her.  The house scared me a little as it had 1920’s and 30’s written all over it.  She also had grape vines and chicken coops.  I used to eat grapes and mess with those chickens whenever I visited.   I was only six or seven years old at the time, so I was fascinated with everything.  Every visit was an adventure.  My dad and I used to go visit her on Saturdays at least once or twice a month.  It was a long trip, but it was always a priority to my dad.  He took good care of his mother. His father, Peter died when he was a young boy and before I was born.  He was a baker. I’ll speak a little more about him a little later.  Dad was the only sibling that really amounted to anything.  He used to hitchhike from Henderson to Chapel Hill, exactly 53 miles,  where he attended the University of North Carolina.  I will get to him more a little later as well. 

I always looked forward to the trip.  My brothers and sisters never saw the fun and adventure in the journey.  So, it was just dad and me on many occasions.

Grandma’s house was two or three stories. It’s was a little fuzzy to me.  In fact, it was designated as an Historical Landmark in the city of Henderson.  Probably because of its age.  I haven’t been to that area for many years, but my guess is, it’s been torn down for new development.  To me, it was just an old house, but it was Grandma’s house and full of mystery and exploration.  I guess there is a fine line between historical significance and run down shanty. 

My dad’s sister Elaine, her husband Fred and their two children, Freddy Jr. and Teresa lived with Grandma.  I was never really sure why.  I think they just free loaded a little but also looked after her.  They were nice people and treated me ok.  My dad was the only one in the family who went out and staked his own claim.  Poorer than dirt, he managed to get himself into college at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.   I think he said he had to take a test to get in back then.  Obviously, he did well on it.  He then went to UNC medical school and on to a pretty good career as a psychiatrist.  He supported Grandma most of her elder life.  Like I said, he was a good son who looked after his mother.  That part about my dad always inspires me and never gets old.  It is where my respect for him originated.

My reward for the six hour journey in the car to visit Grandma was the lunch she would prepare for me.  It was the highlight of the trip.  The one thing I looked forward to more than anything.  Grandma always made me my favorite lunch.  Spaghetti Sandwiches. Yes, you read that right, spaghetti sandwiches.  Of course, my kids, Anna and Andrew began to roll their eyes at the story and wondered what the big deal was as they saw my face begin to light up as it began to weave the details.

I detailed out all of her movements through her kitchen in preparing my feast.  Her kitchen was an oddity in itself.  It must have been added onto the house many years before.  It wasn’t level, it was cold and drafty and was independently heated by a small wood burning stove located centrally in the room, which of course was also odd, as most people don’t have wood burning stoves in the middle of their kitchens. 

Of course, my kids are still looking at me like I’m some kind of a nut as my voice got louder, my eyes got larger, and my excitement grew greater with each line I spoke.  I described how she took a can of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meat Balls from the cupboard, rummaged through the drawer for an old manual can opener and then proceeded to open the can with the precision of an Iron Chef.  She would then go to another cupboard and retrieve an old aluminum dented pot and then carefully poured the contents in.  Grandma didn’t have a fancy kitchen with high tech cooking equipment.  No Kitchen Aid, Viking or Thermador appliances here.  No silicon coated pans or fancy electric gadgets.  Just a dingy old cast iron gas stove that had to be lit with a match.    I explained how she took out the box of matches, placed the match on the strike plate, carefully lit the match, found the correct knob, turned on the gas, and produced a flame without a flinch.  Lunch was only minutes away now.  My excitement was nearly over the top by now.  Only a few more steps. 

By now, my kids are hanging on to my story by a very thin thread.  They’re bored and not really interested.  I begged them to just stay with me just a few minutes more.  Such was my spaghetti sandwich mania; I continued to hoe and plow my story forward. 

She then went to a breadbox, yes, a good old fashioned, somewhat rusted countertop metal bread box and removed a loaf of Sunbeam white bread.  Ironically, we would pass the Sunbeam bread plant on our way to Grandma’s house.  How’s that for torture?  It always smelled like fresh bread as we passed the plant.  She removed the twist-tie, opened the bread loaf bag, and carefully removed four slices of the fluffy white shingles of eating delight. Gently, she placed them on a plate, she had also pulled from the cupboard earlier. 

I’m running out of time but my kids are still hanging with me and my spaghetti sandwich story.  By now, the spaghetti was warming quickly in the pot. Using a large wooden spoon, Grandma continued to stir it with vigor until you could see the steam rising.  I knew when I saw that sign, lunch Nirvana was moments away.  She removed the pot from the heat and spooned a heaping amount onto the plate.  She added two slices of bread to the plate and my feast was officially on.  Let the spaghetti sandwich construction begin!

I laid the first slice out, took my fork and very carefully shoveled spaghetti and meatballs onto it, being extra careful not to overload my culinary masterpiece.  Finally, I topped it with the second slice of bread and a spaghetti sandwich was complete.  Any construction project this beautiful should require a permit and hard hat. I had officially reached the Pearly Gates!  I’m sure I heard angels singing.  At that precise moment, I was the happiest kid in North Carolina, if not the entire country.  I carefully grasped the edges of my spaghetti sandwich, being extra careful not to spill any.  Of course, it never worked out quite as planned but that was OK.   I knew it would be messy and strategically used my bread crusts to mop up the spilled drippings.  I dug in.  It was better than delicious.  It was the perfect meal, and I couldn’t wait to get to the second one.  Grandma knew how happy it made me as she felt the smile on my face. 

Now, back to my kids in their near hypnotic state and their lack of interest in my story.  With strained looks, frowny faces and tapping feet, they still struggled to figure out what the big deal with spaghetti sandwiches was.   

“OK, so you went to Grandma’s and had lunch,” stating the obvious.  “We have things to do dad, they proclaimed.  Just finish the story already.”  

Caving to their demands to wrap it up, I concluded the amazing spaghetti sandwich story. 

I looked at them both in the eye for a second.  The few seconds of staring was almost uncomfortable for all of us.  I could feel my emotions begin to turn.  I didn’t cry in front of my children very often.  They could see something happening to me in front of them they couldn’t really explain.  I held it together and offered this explanation.  With my voice cracking slightly, I softly explained to them, it’s not the spaghetti sandwiches that are important.  Don’t get me wrong, they were great.  What’s important to understand is that your great Grandma Evans, Grandma to me and my dad’s mother was completely blind.  She lost her eyesight early in her life during a medical procedure and was forced to learn how to do everything without being able to see.  She couldn’t afford fancy schools for the blind or have someone come into her home to help her.  She had to go it alone.  She trained and taught herself to manage her home, her family, her meals, getting dressed, bathing herself, getting to her doctor’s office, feeding her chickens, and making me my spaghetti sandwiches.

I still tear up to this day recounting the Spaghetti Sandwich story.  This is one of my favorite sources of motivation and inspiration.  There are certainly many more that I will get to in this space.

Much of my drive, perspective, values, respectfulness, and my roadway center come from what I took away from my visits to Grandma’s and having her spaghetti sandwiches.