英語美文The last jar of jelly 最后一罐果凍

英語美文：The

last

jar

of

jelly

最后一罐果

凍

英語美文：The

last

jar

of

jelly

最后一罐果凍

By

Andy

Skidmore

Our

children

grew

up

on

peanut

butter

and

jelly

sandwiches.

Even

my

husband

and

I

sometimes

sneak

one

in

late

at

night

with

a

glass

of

milk.

I

believe

that

the

Earl

of

Sandwich

himself

would

agree

with

me

that

the

success

of

this

universally

loved

concoction

lies

not

in

the

brand

of

peanut

butter

used,

but

rather

in

the

jelly.

The

right

jelly

delights

the

palate,

and

homemade

is

the

only

choice.

I

wasn’t

the

jelly

maker

in

this

family.

My

mother-in-law

was.

She

didn’t

provide

a

wide

range

of

flavors,

either.

It

was

either

grape

or

blackberry.

This

limited

choice

was

a

welcome

relief

in

the

days

of

toddlers,

siblings

and

puppies.

When

all

around

me

other

decisions

and

choices

had

to

be

made,

making

peanut

butter

and

jelly

sandwiches

was

easy.

And

since

we

liked

both

flavors,

we

usually

picked

whatever

jar

was

at

the

front

of

the

pantry

or

refrigerator.

The

only

contribution

I

made

to

the

jelly

making

was

to

save

baby

food

jars,

which

my

mother-in-law

would

fill

with

the

tasty

gel,

seal

with

wax

and

send

back

home

with

us.

For

the

past

22

years

of

my

married

life,

whenever

I

wanted

to

make

a

peanut

butter

and

jelly

sandwich

for

myself

or

my

husband

or

one

of

the

children,

all

I

had

to

do

was

reach

for

one

of

those

little

jars

of

jelly.

It

was

always

there.

Jelly making

was

just

a

way

of

life

for

my

mother-in-law.

She

always

did

it,

following

the

same

rituals

-

from

picking

the

fruit

to

setting

the finished

jelly

on

the

homemade

shelves

in

her

little

pantry

off

the

kitchen.

My

father-in-law

died

several

years

ago

and

this

past

December,

my

mother-in-law

also

passed

away.

Among

the

things

in

the

house

to

be

divided

by

her

children

were

the

remaining

canned

goods

in

the

pantry.

Each

of

her

children

chose

from

the

many

jars

of

tomato

juice,

green

beans

and

jelly.

When

my

husband

brought

his

jars

home,

we

carefully

put

them

away

in

our

pantry.

for “GR

The

other

day

I

reached

in

there

to

retrieve

jelly

for

a

quick

sandwich,

and

there

it

was.

Sitting

all

alone

on

the

far

side

of

the

shelf

was

a

small

jar

of

grape

jelly.

The

lid

was

somewhat

rusty

in

places.

Written

on

it

with

a

black

marker

wasgrape

”

and

the

year

the

jelly

had

been

made.

As

I

picked

up

the

jar,

I

suddenly

realized

something

that

I

had

failed

to

see

earlier.

I

reopened

the

pantry

door

to

be

sure.

Yes,

this

was

it,

this

was

the

last

jar

of

“Memommie

jelly.”

We

would

always

have

store-bought

jelly,

but

this

was

the

last

jar

we

would

ever

have

from

the

patient,

loving

hands

of

my

mother-in-law.

Although

she

had

been

gone

for

nearly

a

year,

so

much

of

her

had

remained

with

us.

We

hardly

ever

opened

a

jar

of

jelly

at

the

breakfast

table

without

kidding

about

those

thousands

of

little

jars

she

had

filled.

Our

children

had

never

known

a

day

without

their

grandmother’s

jelly.

It

seems

like

such

a

small

thing,

and

most

days

it

was

something

that

was

taken

for

granted.

But

today

it

seemed

a

great

treasure.

Holding

that

last

jar

in

my

hand,

my

heart

traveled

back

to

meeting

my

mother-in-law

for

the

first

time.

I

could

see

her

crying

on

our

wedding

day,

and

later,

kissing

and

loving

our

children

as

if

she

didn’t

have

five

other

grandc hildren.

I

could

see

her

walking

the

fields

of

the

farm,

patiently

waiting

while

others

tended

to

the

cows.

I

could

see

her

walking

in

the

woods

or

riding

the

hay

wagon

behind

the

tractor.

I

saw

her

face

as

it

looked

when

we

surprised

her

by

meeting

her

at

church.

I

saw

her

caring

for

a

sick

spouse

and

surrounded

by

loving

children

at

the

funeral.

I

put

the

jelly

back

on

the

shelf.

No

longer

was

it

just

a

jar

of

jelly.

It

was

the

end

of

a

family

tradition.

I

guess

I

believed

that

as

long

as

it

was

there,

a

part

of

my mother-in-law

would

always

live

on.

We

have

many

things

that

once

belonged

to

my

husband’s

parents.

There

are

guns,

tools,

handmade

sweaters

and

throws,

and

some

furniture.

We

have

hundreds

of

pictures

and

many

more

memories.

These

are

the

kinds

of

things

that

you

expect

to

survive

the

years

and

to

pass

on

to

your

children.

But

I