When I was growing up, a savory mix we called "Nuts and Bolts" was a holiday treat in our family. You take cheerios, corn and wheat chex, pretzel sticks (the thin, "Mr. Salty" pretzels were the best—do they even make those anymore?), and mixed nuts and combine that with three sticks of margarine (melted—and definitely margarine; butter doesn't work), worcestershire sauce, and celery, garlic, and onion salt. Put it all in a big pan and mix thoroughly every 15 minutes for two hours. It was a labor of love.
My parents would pack this goodness into carefully cleaned "salad dressing" (looked like mayonnaise, but wasn't) and peanut butter jars. My mom would take a label and write out in her beautiful Mom Writing who these jars were intended for. Three—"The Seidelmans," "Mrs. Roberts," and "Florence"—were for our elderly neighbors. The rest were for our parish priest, the nuns, and other friends. All the jars standing together looked like the finest cornucopia in all the land.
I always volunteered to deliver the jars to our neighbors. Do I need to get all bundled up, I would ask? Yes, said Mom, you do.
But it's just down the street.
It doesn't matter. It's too cold.
She would say this in that No-More-Talking way.
I would carefully take the first jar in my mittened hands. Be careful, my mom warned. I will, I said. I navigated my way through the snow and ice to two houses over. I climbed up the slippery painted stairs, and pushed the doorbell at the Seidelmans' house.
Mrs. and Mrs. would both answer the door. They were my favorite neighbors, and I was their favorite. Being in a big family, one always notices with great gratitude when one is acknowledged, much less favored. They would invite me in. I would usually accept their invitation, unless I was anxious that another sibling would get to do the other deliveries.
I would step into their warm and dark house. Mrs. Seidelman would make me hot chocolate and I would sit inside their house, admiring their oval rugs, their warm living room with the beautiful old-timey glass lamp with the pretty pink rose painted on it. I always wondered what was beyond the archway in the dining room that led to the bedrooms. We would sit and chat for awhile, and then I would, in classic kid-like, always-busy way, say goodbye and leave.
I don't remember delivering nuts and bolts to Mrs. Roberts or Florence, our other neighbors. Maybe my brothers and sisters were too quick for me. I do remember coming in, cold and red-cheeked, and asking my mom if there were any more deliveries, and her saying not until next year.
Many years later, when I was in college and home for Christmas, I suddenly remembered the nuts and bolts deliveries and asked my mom if she still did that. She looked taken aback, then I could see her remember. She said, "no, I haven't." Carelessly, I commented that it was "too bad," because "that was nice."
Now that I'm grown and always hectic, I'm sorry I said that to my mom. It must have sounded like a reproach.
I can't believe my mom and dad—constantly battling to feed and clothe 10 kids—found the time to do the nuts and bolts. Straitened circumstances—or a hectic schedule—needn't dictate our ability to be kind and considerate.
