J. Dean Hunter

     The chair softly squeaked in rhythm as Nana Ruth rocked while knitting.  Under her breath she hummed the tune of a nursery rhyme song worm stuck in her ear from the book that had been read to her in syllables sounded out the hour before.  The smell of chocolate chip cookies slowly wafted into the living room from the kitchen as the Andy Griffith Show re-run broke to commercial.  No doubt she relates to Aunt Bee. 

     Rosalie sat in the floor teaching her doll to color, periodically displaying mild angst that “Babs” can’t seem to learn to stay within the lines.  She too was half humming the tune, half listening to the TV.  The tone of the room changed abruptly when an underwear commercial began as Rosalie leaped to the screen watching with intent.  “I hope this it the astronaut one, I’ve never seen the astronaut one.”  “Have you ever seen the astronaut one Nana Ruth?”  “Which one is Jesus Nana Ruth? Is He the apple? I bet He’s the apple?” 

     Having heard her name amidst the rapid fire questions, Nana Ruth diverted her eyes from her knitting to the screen to see the Fruit of the Loom mascots in costume and had a brief hidden panic wondering if she was experiencing a senior moment, or a childhood one.  “What are you talking about Rosalie, Jesus was not an astronaut.”   “Nooooo Nana Ruth, Mary is the astronaut, and which one of these is Jesus? Is he the apple?”  An internal sigh of relief released Nana Ruth from the worries that this was a senior moment.   

     “Rosalie, Nana doesn’t know what your talking about, hun.”  “Yes you do Nana, like we say it in mass, you know.”  Nana Ruth lifted a quiet prayer of gratitude for that confirmation that this was NOT a senior moment.  “How do we say it in mass, say it for Nana.”  Quiet exasperation crept over Rosalie’s tone as she began, “Hail Mary in outer space, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the Fruit of the Loom Jesus.  So … is Jesus the apple or not?” 

     Recognizing she would have to go to confession next weekend, Nana Ruth acknowledged it was well worth the added purgatory time if she did not make it, as this was too delicious not to let her parents untangle Rosalie’s little knot.  “Grapes Rosalie,” she said, pulling the strings just a little bit tighter, “Jesus is the grapes, that’s why we have wine at mass, now let’s go to the kitchen and see if those cookies aren’t about done.”