The scholar and the sage with a biscuit

Every family or extended family has its scholar. This is not by election or appointment. It is by conscientious appraisal and acceptance by all others.

Next to her dad, granddaughter Lauren is that person in our family. Ever since her rendition, explanation and insight into the story "The Velveteen Rabbit," she has held this exalted position.

Her narration of "The Velveteen Rabbit" lasted all the way around the former Arena Park racetrack up to where the osage orange tree spilled its odd but pretty fruit across the park to a rest bench. It was told with much youthful exuberance. Near the end, I obnoxiously interrupted.

"Do you know what velveteen is?" I asked.

"It is what the rabbit is covered with."

"Yes," I agreed, but still being grossly interruptive, I asked if she knew about velveteen and, before she could answer, launched into a lengthy explanation of how it differed from velvet because of the pile.

"Do you know what a pile is?" I then queried.

"Yes, Grandma, it's a stack of stuff that needs to be hauled off."

Right then was when I knew she was destined to be the family scholar.

I wondered if I was in that pile of stuff that needed to be hauled off. I sat quietly and let Lauren and the Velveteen Rabbit live in peace.

Fast forward about 10 years. Now, Lauren could tell me about her undergraduate work, honors presentation, enrollment in graduate school, and chosen career path of speech pathology, all while walking around the racetrack many more times than when she was a child.

I have no idea what all speech pathology entails, but I do know my granddaughter. Here is something that is pure Lauren. Without using hyperbole and medical jargon, let me just say I recently lost my appetite and became skinnier each day. Lauren heard about the situation, drove to Cape, showed up in my room one morning, and said, "I brought you a biscuit."

A biscuit. What on earth would I do with a biscuit?

She thrust a warm, wrapped package into my hand.

"Kind of heavy for a biscuit," I remarked.

"That's because it has little slices of sausage in it."

"How did you do that?"

"It comes that way."

She broke off a small piece and put it in my mouth.

I tasted the biscuit dough, seasoned by the sausage. Suddenly, I was again interested in food.

The next bite contained a sausage seasoned by sage. I was alive again, remembering the long rows of sage we had in the long ago garden and the big dried hanks of it hanging around the kitchen.

I doubt that Lauren's wisdom in this instance came from any speech pathology text or training. But now, I eat everything near at hand.

The scholar and the sage came at a crucial time and rescued me.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.