Like clockwork, the wrinkled brown paper box arrived December 20th, two days before mom’s birthday, five days before Christmas.  It was neatly wrapped with masking-taped edges, cross-wrapped with fraying manila twine tied in a knot for easy carrying.  The return address, 316 South Clifton, Jackson, Mississippi, was scraggly printed in the upper left corner in smudgy blue magic marker.  Not a mystery, I knew the person who sent the package and I knew what was inside; a Christmas card with the usual $20 dollar bill, a bag of shelled pecans nuts, and a fruitcake. 

Unlike the typical store bought cakes, this one was special.  It was shrouded with cheesecloth soaked in cooking Sherry, aromatic enough to seep through the box lightly intoxicating the air.  You would not have to take a bite to feel woozy.  Just stand near it and inhale.  It was soaked through and through just enough to keep the fruit and nut-filled cake moist but still firm. 

The package was from my father’s mother affectionately known to me as Big Mama. The card simply read, “Merry Christmas Lee. Give my love to all.  Love Mom.”  Although my father died thirteen years ago in 1963, his death did not dissolve the bridge of love created between my mother and her mother-in-law.  Big Mama was still her mother and my mother Letha, was still her daughter.