“Jelly” is an occasional topic of conversation in our household.

It seems Gary was traumatized as a child by all the plum jelly he was forced to consume.

Growing up on a farm, with parents who remembered The Great Depression like it was yesterday, Gary knew better than to complain.

So he dutifully ate plum jelly on a slice of bread (he calls it “jelly bread,” which I’ve always found confusing) when it was served to him as a kid.

But he didn’t have to like it.

Even today, chatting with him about it, Gary’s brow furrows with unresolved frustration.

Consider this: Have you ever taken a bite out of a beautiful chocolate-chip cookie, only to discover the chips are actually raisins? It is nothing short of a betrayal.

And so it was with jelly made from blue plums. You didn’t know it wasn’t your favorite grape jelly until you took a big bite.

The plums came from Gary’s great-uncle Leo, who lived in the nearby town of Dale. Some years the crop was quite bountiful. Gary’s mom would gather up the children plus four or five enamelware tubs and they’d head to Dale for a visit and plenty of plums.

Of course, you can’t waste anything, so after the treat of fresh, juicy plums …

… it was time to make jelly.

Gary remembers helping his mom line up the jars in the kitchen as she prepared red-plum jelly and blue-plum jelly. It was a long, hot process.

The jelly was stored downstairs in the fruit cellar, up on high shelves. Too high for a little boy to knock one (or two, or three) over. Not that little Gary would ever do that sort of thing.

The plum jelly was stored alongside the grape jelly from the grape arbor behind Gary’s childhood home (there’s now a clothesline there).

When we married, I promised Gary to never bring plum jelly into our house, and I’ve kept that vow. Some promises are easy to keep – I’m more of a jam person, after all.

The topic of jelly came up when I told Gary about a poem Mom wrote and published in her poetry book back in 1984.

It seems that Mom, as a little girl, would be sent to the neighborhood “Jelly Woman” when their stock at home ran low.

the jelly woman

the jelly woman died that same september

small as I was coming at sundown
to the house hard by the cemetery
I chained my eyes to her filling
the dollhouse doorway like a giant’s wife
she led me into dwarfish rooms

mother give you money
don’t have a bag this time

I held the two grape jelly jars
like candles in my hands
she said they were her last ones
and the best

~ Joan Vayo, May 16, 1973

Dad tells me that back in the 1940s, little shops like this were everywhere in New Haven’s neighborhoods. Often they were in homes. Mr. May had a candy counter. The local butcher would sometimes, uh … prepare his goods for sale in his backyard.

It’s true what they say! remembers my Aunt Bunny. A chicken with his head cut off is real – I saw one running around the butcher’s yard!

Dad remembers how Uncle Pip‘s Great Dane – Sam – got in trouble one day. Apparently, Sam ran free and liked to keep up with all the action in the neighhood.

Well, early one morning, Sam had wandered about a block away from home and saw the bread truck parked in front of Mr. Golden’s store.

Back in the 1940’s, shopkeepers felt safe leaving the front door unlocked overnight so the early deliveries could take place.

Those were different times all right. That takes a lot of trust in your neighbors. Plus, my grandpa – and other member of the New Haven Police Force – were on the beat!

Sam went shopping early one morning and helped himself to a loaf of fresh bread. He ran home with the loaf in his mouth, ready for breakfast!

I wonder if there was any jelly available to top off Sam ValSam‘s* ill-gotten grain.

*Please forgive the punny reference to the bread-stealing protagonist Jean Valjean in Les Miserables (in case you’re not familiar with Victor Hugo’s classic tale).

“the jelly woman” © 1973 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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