Grandma Cookie earned the nickname given her by the more than 40 grandchildren who ate her chocolate chip, sugar and peanut butter treats that were served with milk fetched from the bulk tank.
It was just one of many titles she held — bread-maker, clothes-washer, meat-cutter, gardener and adviser to 11 children who at one time or another took shelter close to her apron strings.
In current times she would have been a successful businessperson, adept at squeezing every nickel until it begged for mercy. Most Great Depression-era people had great respect for each and every dollar.
Grandma Cookie washed clothes on Tuesday. Dirt-encrusted chore clothes were worked across the washing board until the tub's water was black-ink dirty and then squeezed through the wringer-washer, an old machine, which would eventually be replaced by an automatic. The new, and much easier to use machine, was rarely used because she said didn't it did a good job.
The washed clothes were carried up basement steps out to the line, where sheets snapped in the wind. Her chickens, ducks and geese moseyed across the lawn, looking for nourishment and finding trouble before she shooed them away. The geese rested on the cement near the front door while the ducks fancied themselves free to waddle to the creek, where fox, mink and other predators could take them. A boy was sent to bring them back home before night fell. The chickens found big trouble in the garden, where they dusted themselves in the loose dirt and took a liking to sweet strawberries. A good garden fence offered no security when the boy sent to fetch green onions for supper forgot to close the gate.
Her era measured success differently.
Verna was born and raised in a German community, where shared religion and ancestry defined who you were and established boundaries that weren't easily crossed.
Her husband-to-be saw her at a dance sitting at a table with a young man who had brought her. He wasn't an overtly aggressive man, but something inside caused him to lash out. A few punches were thrown and the man who brought Verna to the dance left without her.
They were married on a May morning. Hard times and the season demanded that the wedding day be only a short interlude between work. By afternoon the newlyweds were in the meadow, stacking loose hay outside that would be needed come winter. Father-in-law brought over a wedding gift — a sow and six suckling pigs. It was a gift that helped them through the winter. Pork, in the German community, is considered a special blessing among those who are especially thankful when they have both bread and cheese and appreciative still when they only have bread.
Not that there weren't tragedies along the way. Daughter Adelaide came down with rheumatic fever, which sometimes comes on following a bout of strep throat and can affect the heart and joints. The fever kept her bed-bound for weeks and left her heart severely damaged. Adelaide didn't live past her teenage years.
Grandma Cookie kept a formal portrait of Adelaide above her favorite chair, though she never talked much about her. Many prayers were offered with spiritual certainty and a few tears shed in solitude.
Tears and hugs did not flow freely. She cried when a son left for Vietnam and cried again when her husband died in bed beside her. Sons and daughters married and left and too soon it seemed she shared the house only with her youngest son, who held on to her apron strings.
Sunday, back when the farm gate seemed to be the extent of the important world, meant almost all the family came back to play pasture ball and sit on lawn chairs to talk the day away. She fed them all with goulash, fresh bread, cake and lemonade. Sunday nights brought her a good kind of tired.
Grandma Cookie would never admit to being remarkable. Far from it, the pillows. blankets and knitted things never quite turned out quite like she would have liked. To claim otherwise would suggest bragging, which she detested in every form.
Grandma Cookie and her husband are together again in the cemetery that overlooks a field that's alternatively planted to corn and soybeans. He can watch the crops grow and she's happy resting with the flowers that appear come summer and the robins that search for earthworms in the soft grass.
I also know someone nicknamed "Cookie," a grown woman in her late thirties, and her real name is Moina. If she prefers Cookie, who are we to judge? Having lived with a given name I have *hated* my entire life, I can certainly understand the desire to go by a nickname!
Miz Minka, I can agree that there are worse things to be called than "Cookie", though I find it difficult to think of any. And I still think it's infantile for a grown woman to be called that. Might as well be called "Cupcake". I LOVE your name though. Both of the ones I know! :)
Packetman, you, dear Sir, are a smartass extraordinaire! I like that.
Incidentally, I think Vida is a much better name than Cookie (seeing as it means 'life').
My sister nicknamed me Shaniqua years ago, with the variation being Shaniqua-bah. We named our oldest son Jacob, and have thwarted almost every effort of others to turn that into Jake, because we didn't name him that! Likewise, when I first met my husband and he could not remember my name, he nicknamed me Christian...anybody who knows us also knows not to think about calling me by that name since has always been a term of endearment solely from him. The point is that nicknames are generally relative to those who give the nicknames in the first place - if one person calls you Cookie, it really doesn't have to stick unless you allow it.
I knew a woman named STORMI, once, her real name was Corrice. I was Georgie, until I grew taller than my Dad, fortunately, he was 5'9". "Georgie Porgie, kissed the girls and made them cry?" Seriously? Fortunately, that didn't scar me. I DO hate Georgie, though. (Love your blog!)
My (adult) boys have an aunt who goes by Cookie; she's pushing 50 if she ain't already there. I've known her for over 40 years, since she was about ten or 12 and have never called her anything but "Cookie." I cannot remember her real name. She'd kick my butt if I called her anything BUT Cookie.
It is quite possible that Cookie is perfectly acceptable in your new part of the world.You're hanging your preconceived notion of acceptability on this. Many elderly Brits refer to their mothers as mommy and it has nothing to do with a complex.
Nice shitstorm ya stirred up. Last time I saw something like this was when some tool screamed out of the window of his car that bikers are pussies. Of course, saying shit like that at on the strip at Bike week probably wasn't his best idea ever considering the 'talking to' he received for his efforts.
And I agree. Nothing at all wrong with a grown woman named 'Cookie' unless of course she's an A cup, then we have issues.
i just have to say smoething christina lmt>>>.i worked in a personnel office at univac, and let me tell you a worse name than cookie>>>penelope hoar>>>>called by her nickname penny, yes penny hoar on her appication where it said SEX, she put yes, once 1939, capree motel>>>very forthcoming but all we wanted was>>.female
39 comments:
but what if that's actually her name as it is a friend of mine.
Hey, if that's her name, I hope she at some point kicked her parents' asses. But then it is of course appropriate to call her by her true name.
I will edit the post to read "nick-name"...
What's wrong with Cookie?
:facepalm:
Cookies are delicious and one of my favorite treats. But "Cookie" is an infantile, demeaning nickname for a grown woman. In my opinion.
Am I ass for finding that hilarious?
Yes, indeed you are! :D
My mother-in-law's real name is Vida. So she is known as Cookie.
Its better than Barbie I guess, or Shaniqwa.
And yes, she did kick her parents' asses for naming her Vida.
Good lord! What can of worms have I opened by posting about this?!
Tell your MIL I mean no offense. But "Cookie"? Seriously?
It does beat "Vida"...
I actually went to school with a girl named Cookie Mann. Now them was some wicked parents. Let me tell you, she was one tough cookie.
I didn't mention that my friend's last name is Bakke. Of course she married into that.
Holy crap. I pity these poor women.
Grandma Cookie earned the nickname given her by the more than 40 grandchildren who ate her chocolate chip, sugar and peanut butter treats that were served with milk fetched from the bulk tank.
It was just one of many titles she held — bread-maker, clothes-washer, meat-cutter, gardener and adviser to 11 children who at one time or another took shelter close to her apron strings.
In current times she would have been a successful businessperson, adept at squeezing every nickel until it begged for mercy. Most Great Depression-era people had great respect for each and every dollar.
Grandma Cookie washed clothes on Tuesday. Dirt-encrusted chore clothes were worked across the washing board until the tub's water was black-ink dirty and then squeezed through the wringer-washer, an old machine, which would eventually be replaced by an automatic. The new, and much easier to use machine, was rarely used because she said didn't it did a good job.
The washed clothes were carried up basement steps out to the line, where sheets snapped in the wind. Her chickens, ducks and geese moseyed across the lawn, looking for nourishment and finding trouble before she shooed them away. The geese rested on the cement near the front door while the ducks fancied themselves free to waddle to the creek, where fox, mink and other predators could take them. A boy was sent to bring them back home before night fell. The chickens found big trouble in the garden, where they dusted themselves in the loose dirt and took a liking to sweet strawberries. A good garden fence offered no security when the boy sent to fetch green onions for supper forgot to close the gate.
Her era measured success differently.
Verna was born and raised in a German community, where shared religion and ancestry defined who you were and established boundaries that weren't easily crossed.
Her husband-to-be saw her at a dance sitting at a table with a young man who had brought her. He wasn't an overtly aggressive man, but something inside caused him to lash out. A few punches were thrown and the man who brought Verna to the dance left without her.
They were married on a May morning. Hard times and the season demanded that the wedding day be only a short interlude between work. By afternoon the newlyweds were in the meadow, stacking loose hay outside that would be needed come winter. Father-in-law brought over a wedding gift — a sow and six suckling pigs. It was a gift that helped them through the winter. Pork, in the German community, is considered a special blessing among those who are especially thankful when they have both bread and cheese and appreciative still when they only have bread.
Grandma Cookie was certainly blessed.
Not that there weren't tragedies along the way. Daughter Adelaide came down with rheumatic fever, which sometimes comes on following a bout of strep throat and can affect the heart and joints. The fever kept her bed-bound for weeks and left her heart severely damaged. Adelaide didn't live past her teenage years.
Grandma Cookie kept a formal portrait of Adelaide above her favorite chair, though she never talked much about her. Many prayers were offered with spiritual certainty and a few tears shed in solitude.
Tears and hugs did not flow freely. She cried when a son left for Vietnam and cried again when her husband died in bed beside her. Sons and daughters married and left and too soon it seemed she shared the house only with her youngest son, who held on to her apron strings.
Sunday, back when the farm gate seemed to be the extent of the important world, meant almost all the family came back to play pasture ball and sit on lawn chairs to talk the day away. She fed them all with goulash, fresh bread, cake and lemonade. Sunday nights brought her a good kind of tired.
Grandma Cookie would never admit to being remarkable. Far from it, the pillows. blankets and knitted things never quite turned out quite like she would have liked. To claim otherwise would suggest bragging, which she detested in every form.
Grandma Cookie and her husband are together again in the cemetery that overlooks a field that's alternatively planted to corn and soybeans. He can watch the crops grow and she's happy resting with the flowers that appear come summer and the robins that search for earthworms in the soft grass.
Cry me a river, Salamander? What's your point, anyway?
ROFL, You caught me. Just playin' :D
;)
You rogue, you!
I also know someone nicknamed "Cookie," a grown woman in her late thirties, and her real name is Moina. If she prefers Cookie, who are we to judge? Having lived with a given name I have *hated* my entire life, I can certainly understand the desire to go by a nickname!
Just sayin'. :)
Chtistina, I totally agree with you d;-)
Miz Minka, I can agree that there are worse things to be called than "Cookie", though I find it difficult to think of any. And I still think it's infantile for a grown woman to be called that. Might as well be called "Cupcake". I LOVE your name though. Both of the ones I know! :)
Packetman, you, dear Sir, are a smartass extraordinaire! I like that.
Don't be so judgmental, cupcake.
:D
Wow Christina, you really did it this time!
Incidentally, I think Vida is a much better name than Cookie (seeing as it means 'life').
My sister nicknamed me Shaniqua years ago, with the variation being Shaniqua-bah. We named our oldest son Jacob, and have thwarted almost every effort of others to turn that into Jake, because we didn't name him that! Likewise, when I first met my husband and he could not remember my name, he nicknamed me Christian...anybody who knows us also knows not to think about calling me by that name since has always been a term of endearment solely from him. The point is that nicknames are generally relative to those who give the nicknames in the first place - if one person calls you Cookie, it really doesn't have to stick unless you allow it.
I've never called my wife "Cookie" though she makes me crumble.
yeah, I know , that's so sweet it makes yer teeth ache, don't it?
there's four or five more cheesy puns lurking that best be left to lie...
I knew a woman named STORMI, once, her real name was Corrice. I was Georgie, until I grew taller than my Dad, fortunately, he was 5'9". "Georgie Porgie, kissed the girls and made them cry?" Seriously? Fortunately, that didn't scar me. I DO hate Georgie, though. (Love your blog!)
My (adult) boys have an aunt who goes by Cookie; she's pushing 50 if she ain't already there. I've known her for over 40 years, since she was about ten or 12 and have never called her anything but "Cookie." I cannot remember her real name. She'd kick my butt if I called her anything BUT Cookie.
Christina, it would appear that this one backfired a bit.
Heh!
It is quite possible that Cookie is perfectly acceptable in your new part of the world.You're hanging your preconceived notion of acceptability on this.
Many elderly Brits refer to their mothers as mommy and it has nothing to do with a complex.
Way to stir the pot ;>)
Good Lord!
Of course everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, but I'm sticking to my guns!
And who knew that so many (unfortunate! :P) women named/called "Cookie" were roaming around?
Edward...watch yourself! ;)
Good point, Shannon!
be603, very punny!
@George: Dad, is it YOU?!
Buck, see above. *sigh*
Buckskins Rule, you got THAT right!
Glenn, what preconceived notion? It's my OPINION.
And yes, stirring the pot. It's fun!
Nice shitstorm ya stirred up.
Last time I saw something like this was when some tool screamed out of the window of his car that bikers are pussies. Of course, saying shit like that at on the strip at Bike week probably wasn't his best idea ever considering the 'talking to' he received for his efforts.
And I agree. Nothing at all wrong with a grown woman named 'Cookie' unless of course she's an A cup, then we have issues.
yep could be worse ...
"Mr & Mrs Hooker would like to announce the birth of their daughter, Ima ..."
Thank you, Dick, for your usual insightful comment. You big jerk! :P
I agree that there are far worse names out there, Mulligan...however, "Cookie" is still a cringe-worthy one, in my book.
i just have to say smoething christina lmt>>>.i worked in a personnel office at univac, and let me tell you a worse name than cookie>>>penelope hoar>>>>called by her nickname penny, yes penny hoar on her appication where it said SEX, she put yes, once 1939, capree motel>>>very forthcoming but all we wanted was>>.female
burma shave
i did say what i really thought, honest
"Penny Hoar"?! Poor woman.
Always feel free to say what you want, Putz. And I shall feel free to agree or disagree with you! :D
"Cookie?"
What a 'crummy' nickname.
(rimshot)
"Thank you, thank you...I'll be here all week. Try the veal! Don't forget to tip your waitress..."
My aunt has been trying to rid herself of that nickname for years and it hasn't worked which is very surprising since she's hell's own bitch.
Wow, Zelda! Maybe your family is just tougher than she...or enjoys her suffering?
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