The Weber Literary Journal The Famous Molasses Cookies By Gladys Hunter ANYONE who has grown up in a community where there was not a dear old lady who was known as Grandma to every one for miles around is indeed unfortunate. When I was a child it was my great pleasure to live in a community where such a lady resided. Whenever the word "Grandma" was mentioned there came to us a picture of a dear old lady who lived alone in a little two-roomed house. But more than that, to the few of us who were still being ruled, more or less, by goodies, there came to us a picture of an old-fashioned cupboard. Upon the shelves of this most vital piece of furniture there sat a small jar which was held as sacred to us as was the golden calf of Aaron to the children of Israel. And why was the jar so sacred? Because it never failed to contain a large baking of molasses cookies. Well do I remember that when a child, scarcely old enough to be trusted very far away from home alone, I used to scheme, plead and even shed a few tears, when occasion demanded them, to convince my fond parent that "I must go to Grandma's." At last when permission was granted I would lose no time in reaching my goal. Arriving at Grandma's I was always welcomed with the most pleasant of greetings, but it was usually lost on my inattentive mind for always the same thoughts were taking possession of me. When would she open the doors and give me just one little peep inside the jar? At last, after the greeting which always seemed to take hours and hours, the doors would be opened, the jar removed from the shelf and I would be allowed to slip my chubby hand inside and help myself. Much to my regret, however, I could diminish the contents by only one cookie without violating the few rules of politeness that had been taught me at that age. However, even with my cookie I did not seem entirely happy. Yes, indeed, I would eat it and enjoy it. But after a 32 The Weber Literary Journal few moments I would startle Grandma by saying, "Well Grandma, I got to go home". Well did I know that when the time came for me to leave, my pocket would be filled to the utmost capacity with the dainty which seemed so much of a necessity to me. My pocket once filled, I would play at Grandma's for hours, apparently with no thought whatever of any other home. When I became a trifle older so that I could help with the minor tasks of the household, each day I was given a basket of dainties or a dinner all neatly arranged on a tray, and told to carry it to Grandma. I was a child then and, as any other child, I much preferred to glide peacefully down the path of least resistance. Most of my tasks were abhorred and when asked to perform them I would respond at once with a list of excuses. But the daily visit to Grandma's was not considered a task, rather a pleasure, for although the scorching sun of summer made me uncomfortably warm, or the icy, winter-chilled winds would blow the sleet in my face, still I gave not a thought to these unpleasant conditions, for the thought of molasses cookies urged me on. Never was I disappointed. When I would arrive, Grandma would give a smile such as only grandmas who know all about hungry children and cookie jars can give, and then she would proceed to satisfy my longings. After each visit with Grandma I would start on my homeward journey, a happy and well-contented child, resolving within myself that when I grew up I was going to have gray hair, wear spectacles, and above all, among my possessions there would always be a jar of molasses cookies. 33