Bacon Biscuits and Fried Pies

Bacon Biscuits and Fried Pies

By Prier

         The tin bucket swung lazily in Daddy’s calloused hand as he ambled toward the old pickup, his lunch rattling faintly inside with each step. The bucket, its metal worn smooth from years of scrubbing and slinging, caught the buttery light of the early morning sun. It wasn’t much of a thing to look at–just a lard bucket with a tight, scratched lid–but it had been part of Daddy’s life for as long as I could remember. It went where he went, to mill yards and sawdust piles, to splintered lunch tables under tin-roofed sheds, to shade trees when there wasn’t a table to be found. That bucket was as constant as the smell of pine sap on his overalls or the iron-gray stubble on his chin every evening.

         I was just a boy then, small enough to think the bucket was magical. Not because it gleamed like magic–oh, no, it was dull and dented, its lid sticking terribly in the summer heat–but because of the treasures it held. Every day as he drove off in the rickety truck, I wondered at the world inside that bucket, the waxed paper-wrapped sandwiches, the biscuits with bacon or maybe just peanut butter, the occasional fried pie tucked in like a valuable secret.

         It wasn’t long before I got to see for myself. On Saturdays, when the mill was short-handed, Daddy would take me along. “You’re gonna learn how folks built their bread,” he’d say, his voice a low rumble that vibrated the air between us like distant thunder. And oh, the sawmill–the noise of it, a wild orchestra of metallic shrieks and hums. The smell, a sharp blend of fresh-cut wood and the bitter tang of oil. Men worked like tireless ants, their faces smudged with dust, their shirts sticking to their backs. Daddy never looked out of place there, bending the world to his will with hands made for the hard stuff life handed him.

         By lunchtime, his nails would be rough with wood splinters and dotted with tiny cuts that never even seemed to register in his face. He’d find a spot against a tree or lean on an old crate, his trusty lard bucket beside him. It was mine to open then, the lid popping with a metallic sigh as if relieved to be freed. I remember once lifting the waxed paper to find two thick biscuits stuffed with eggs and bacon grease so fragrant you could close your eyes and taste it on the air. "Only the good kid gets the extra bacon," he’d say with a wink, though we both knew good or bad didn’t matter when it came to sharing the little he had.


         The bucket never changed. Even in a world where everything else seemed to –the dirt road getting paved, the radio turning to television, Mama layering coupons for cans of soup instead of growing beans–that lard bucket carried on. When the sun-yellow curtains over the kitchen sink frayed and gave way to new ones Mama stitched from fresh flour sacks, the bucket stayed. When my shoes grew too tight, and Mama used the extra fabric scraps to fashion soles the way country mothers did, the bucket stayed. It stayed until one Christmas morning in the tail end of the decade, when the world shifted just slightly.

         It was a crisp day, cold enough that the air biting our noses made us pull the quilt tighter around our backs as we gathered around the little Christmas tree. Its pine branches drooped under buttons and handmade ornaments, the way Daddy’s shoulders sometimes sagged after a hard week. But Christmas mornings had their own kind of magic, the kind that softened Daddy’s voice and let Mama hum as sweetly as she used to before rationing drained the spirit out of small joys.

         From beneath the tree, wrapped in brown paper tied with twine, lay a gift just for Daddy. With his big fingers, he unfolded the package to reveal something glorious–a steel lunchbox with a snap clasp and a thermos tucked neatly inside.

          “Would you look at that?” he whispered, his usual gruff voice feather-soft. He turned it over in his hands, almost reverently, his thumb tracing the shining metal smooth as you’d stroke a newborn calf.

         I didn’t know what to think. The bucket wasn’t gone–that wasn’t possible. It was still ours, still under the sink waiting for something new to store — rusty nails, loose buttons, chicken feed if nothing else.

         But Daddy packed his lunch—his bacon biscuits, his fried cocoa pies—into that new lunchbox the very next day, and I couldn’t help but notice how his steps felt lighter as he left for the mill. His back straighter too, pride radiating from him the way the morning sun warmed the frost on our windows. The smell of fresh tobacco came when he opened it at noon, as he finally had room to add something extra Mama had been saving up.

         The bucket found a new job–holding bolts this time–but I never quite looked at it the same after that. To me, it had been a time capsule of simpler days, when biscuits had no rival and a metal lid held a father’s love as tenderly as any grand thing a boy could imagine. We all outgrow things, I suppose, but it didn’t stop me from sneaking down to the shop now and then, tapping the old scratches with a finger as if they might tap back.

         A silent reminder of what once had been and, really, what always was.