Irene was born in Perquimans County, North Carolina on May 29, 1925, or May 22, 1925, depending on which you choose to believe: her father's handwritten entry of her birth into the family bible or her recently recovered birth certificate. Upon discovery of the discrepancy, her family asked her if she'd like to start celebrating her birthday on the actual, lawful date. Her response was typical Irene: "Well, we've done it on the 29th for this long, we may as well leave it there." So, the 29th it is.
She belonged to a family of good, Christian folk; father, Tom Jones (who purportedly could walk on his hands for a mile), and mother, Affie (who sang like an angel in church). They taught her the unshakeable love of the Lord, the unconditional love of family, and that the willful sharing of the gifts of able hands, hard work, and homegrown vegetables were invaluable and vital to a good life. She grew up and enjoyed a sweet, simple life with her parents and her siblings Tim, Ira, Martha, and Ollie.
In 1944, she married the love of her life, Claude L. Scott, Sr. (known as C.L. to most, Claudy to her), a handsome fiddle player who thought she was the prettiest gal and best cook in town, with whom she shared 50 of the nicest years. They began married life in Columbia, North Carolina and settled in Morehead City where they raised their two kind daughters and three rambunctious boys: Jan, Patricia, Claude, Jr. (Buddy), Michael, and Allen.
She spent her middle years in Morehead City, and eventually Crab Point, tending to her children, her incredible garden, her friendships, and her mother, Affie, obligingly cooking whatever fish, mollusk, shellfish, or crustacean her grandchildren would drag up from the river. She would light up the gas stove for a single crab if that's what the catch consisted of.
She made her kitchen the heart of her home where many delicious meals, hearty laughs, and even the occasional pickin'-and-grinnin' session would take place. It was an ordinary kitchen like all others, but there was some kind of magic there.
In her later years and after the passing of her husband, Irene moved to Mill Creek to be nearer her church, where she was a stalwart servant and a much revered kitchen staple. She took great joy in throwing together lunches of beans and biscuits, rutabagas, collards, big limas or what-have-you for the "menfolk" who would be working on the church grounds on any given day. She was a humble servant, but at larger events, homecomings, funerals, and the like, you could observe her eyeballing her bowls on the serving table to see if her pot-of-whatever was emptied before the others. The age-old and ultimate unspoken church lady competition. If folks knew it was her dish, it usually would go first.
Not only was she known as a talented artisan of southern fried cuisine, she was also known for being impeccably clean. It was once said that by the time Irene was done washing her collards, she knew every leaf by name.
She developed deep and abiding friendships in the Mill Creek community and they received her as their own: taking her to lunches, taking her on trips, and including her in family events. For that, her family is ever grateful.
Irene was not a typical sort of prideful woman, but she did take deep satisfaction in the accolades garnered by her finely honed cooking abilities, her first-place prize for Banana Cake in 1939, and her children/grandchildren. In that order.
She had a keen wit, made soft-spoken but hilarious observations, and had an easy, slow-paced nature, but she could say more with one look than most folks could say with a whole mouth. Her love of all things gentle and easy extended to many aspects of her life: marriage, raising children, faith, and cooking. In most cases, she knew patience and time could fix just about anything. And if those failed or came up short, add a little salt and bacon grease.
In her later years, Irene (known as Mamie by those close to her) moved to a tidy cottage in Newport next to one of her daughters where she was able to maintain her independence but also be a short, grassy walk from family care. She enjoyed visits with family and friends, long car rides, waving to neighbors as they passed, pretending to dislike her daughter's dog, Toby (who adored her and of whom she would only refer to as Bozo), and ruining her supper with chocolate milkshakes.
Her last days were filled with family dinners, a sleepover with a dear friend, and thoughts of her husband and Heaven. She inquired all the time if we thought she'd get to Heaven one day. We told her that she didn't make the cut, there was no hope for the rest of us. A few days before her passing, she said, "You know, I've been thinking about it. If I don't get into Heaven, probably won't be much company there anyhow. But I think I'll make it." We, her family, are absolutely sure that she did.
Among so many things, her family will especially miss her lengthy, thoughtful, and self-examining pre-dinner prayers. If you ever really wanted to know how Irene was doing spiritually, physically, or sociologically, if you have a fondness for lukewarm dinner, and if you have especially strong neck muscles that don't strain bearing the weight of your dropped head, Irene was your girl for blessing the meal.
Our Mamie was a quiet, humble beacon of patient strength that lit the way for her loud, raucous family through so many trials, tribulations, celebrations, and life. May her kind presence and gentle humor continue to live on in all that ever knew her.
She belonged to a family of good, Christian folk; father, Tom Jones (who purportedly could walk on his hands for a mile), and mother, Affie (who sang like an angel in church). They taught her the unshakeable love of the Lord, the unconditional love of family, and that the willful sharing of the gifts of able hands, hard work, and homegrown vegetables were invaluable and vital to a good life. She grew up and enjoyed a sweet, simple life with her parents and her siblings Tim, Ira, Martha, and Ollie.
In 1944, she married the love of her life, Claude L. Scott, Sr. (known as C.L. to most, Claudy to her), a handsome fiddle player who thought she was the prettiest gal and best cook in town, with whom she shared 50 of the nicest years. They began married life in Columbia, North Carolina and settled in Morehead City where they raised their two kind daughters and three rambunctious boys: Jan, Patricia, Claude, Jr. (Buddy), Michael, and Allen.
She spent her middle years in Morehead City, and eventually Crab Point, tending to her children, her incredible garden, her friendships, and her mother, Affie, obligingly cooking whatever fish, mollusk, shellfish, or crustacean her grandchildren would drag up from the river. She would light up the gas stove for a single crab if that's what the catch consisted of.
She made her kitchen the heart of her home where many delicious meals, hearty laughs, and even the occasional pickin'-and-grinnin' session would take place. It was an ordinary kitchen like all others, but there was some kind of magic there.
In her later years and after the passing of her husband, Irene moved to Mill Creek to be nearer her church, where she was a stalwart servant and a much revered kitchen staple. She took great joy in throwing together lunches of beans and biscuits, rutabagas, collards, big limas or what-have-you for the "menfolk" who would be working on the church grounds on any given day. She was a humble servant, but at larger events, homecomings, funerals, and the like, you could observe her eyeballing her bowls on the serving table to see if her pot-of-whatever was emptied before the others. The age-old and ultimate unspoken church lady competition. If folks knew it was her dish, it usually would go first.
Not only was she known as a talented artisan of southern fried cuisine, she was also known for being impeccably clean. It was once said that by the time Irene was done washing her collards, she knew every leaf by name.
She developed deep and abiding friendships in the Mill Creek community and they received her as their own: taking her to lunches, taking her on trips, and including her in family events. For that, her family is ever grateful.
Irene was not a typical sort of prideful woman, but she did take deep satisfaction in the accolades garnered by her finely honed cooking abilities, her first-place prize for Banana Cake in 1939, and her children/grandchildren. In that order.
She had a keen wit, made soft-spoken but hilarious observations, and had an easy, slow-paced nature, but she could say more with one look than most folks could say with a whole mouth. Her love of all things gentle and easy extended to many aspects of her life: marriage, raising children, faith, and cooking. In most cases, she knew patience and time could fix just about anything. And if those failed or came up short, add a little salt and bacon grease.
In her later years, Irene (known as Mamie by those close to her) moved to a tidy cottage in Newport next to one of her daughters where she was able to maintain her independence but also be a short, grassy walk from family care. She enjoyed visits with family and friends, long car rides, waving to neighbors as they passed, pretending to dislike her daughter's dog, Toby (who adored her and of whom she would only refer to as Bozo), and ruining her supper with chocolate milkshakes.
Her last days were filled with family dinners, a sleepover with a dear friend, and thoughts of her husband and Heaven. She inquired all the time if we thought she'd get to Heaven one day. We told her that she didn't make the cut, there was no hope for the rest of us. A few days before her passing, she said, "You know, I've been thinking about it. If I don't get into Heaven, probably won't be much company there anyhow. But I think I'll make it." We, her family, are absolutely sure that she did.
Among so many things, her family will especially miss her lengthy, thoughtful, and self-examining pre-dinner prayers. If you ever really wanted to know how Irene was doing spiritually, physically, or sociologically, if you have a fondness for lukewarm dinner, and if you have especially strong neck muscles that don't strain bearing the weight of your dropped head, Irene was your girl for blessing the meal.
Our Mamie was a quiet, humble beacon of patient strength that lit the way for her loud, raucous family through so many trials, tribulations, celebrations, and life. May her kind presence and gentle humor continue to live on in all that ever knew her.
Irene was born in Perquimans County, North Carolina on May 29, 1925, or May 22, 1925, depending on which you choose to believe: her father's handwritten entry of her birth into the family bible or her recently recovered birth certificate. Upon discovery of the discrepancy, her family asked her if she'd like to start celebrating her birthday on the actual, lawful date. Her response was typical Irene: "Well, we've done it on the 29th for this long, we may as well leave it there." So, the 29th it is.
She belonged to a family of good, Christian folk; father, Tom Jones (who purportedly could walk on his hands for a mile), and mother, Affie (who sang like an angel in church). They taught her the unshakeable love of the Lord, the unconditional love of family, and that the willful sharing of the gifts of able hands, hard work, and homegrown vegetables were invaluable and vital to a good life. She grew up and enjoyed a sweet, simple life with her parents and her siblings Tim, Ira, Martha, and Ollie.
In 1944, she married the love of her life, Claude L. Scott, Sr. (known as C.L. to most, Claudy to her), a handsome fiddle player who thought she was the prettiest gal and best cook in town, with whom she shared 50 of the nicest years. They began married life in Columbia, North Carolina and settled in Morehead City where they raised their two kind daughters and three rambunctious boys: Jan, Patricia, Claude, Jr. (Buddy), Michael, and Allen.
She spent her middle years in Morehead City, and eventually Crab Point, tending to her children, her incredible garden, her friendships, and her mother, Affie, obligingly cooking whatever fish, mollusk, shellfish, or crustacean her grandchildren would drag up from the river. She would light up the gas stove for a single crab if that's what the catch consisted of.
She made her kitchen the heart of her home where many delicious meals, hearty laughs, and even the occasional pickin'-and-grinnin' session would take place. It was an ordinary kitchen like all others, but there was some kind of magic there.
In her later years and after the passing of her husband, Irene moved to Mill Creek to be nearer her church, where she was a stalwart servant and a much revered kitchen staple. She took great joy in throwing together lunches of beans and biscuits, rutabagas, collards, big limas or what-have-you for the "menfolk" who would be working on the church grounds on any given day. She was a humble servant, but at larger events, homecomings, funerals, and the like, you could observe her eyeballing her bowls on the serving table to see if her pot-of-whatever was emptied before the others. The age-old and ultimate unspoken church lady competition. If folks knew it was her dish, it usually would go first.
Not only was she known as a talented artisan of southern fried cuisine, she was also known for being impeccably clean. It was once said that by the time Irene was done washing her collards, she knew every leaf by name.
She developed deep and abiding friendships in the Mill Creek community and they received her as their own: taking her to lunches, taking her on trips, and including her in family events. For that, her family is ever grateful.
Irene was not a typical sort of prideful woman, but she did take deep satisfaction in the accolades garnered by her finely honed cooking abilities, her first-place prize for Banana Cake in 1939, and her children/grandchildren. In that order.
She had a keen wit, made soft-spoken but hilarious observations, and had an easy, slow-paced nature, but she could say more with one look than most folks could say with a whole mouth. Her love of all things gentle and easy extended to many aspects of her life: marriage, raising children, faith, and cooking. In most cases, she knew patience and time could fix just about anything. And if those failed or came up short, add a little salt and bacon grease.
In her later years, Irene (known as Mamie by those close to her) moved to a tidy cottage in Newport next to one of her daughters where she was able to maintain her independence but also be a short, grassy walk from family care. She enjoyed visits with family and friends, long car rides, waving to neighbors as they passed, pretending to dislike her daughter's dog, Toby (who adored her and of whom she would only refer to as Bozo), and ruining her supper with chocolate milkshakes.
Her last days were filled with family dinners, a sleepover with a dear friend, and thoughts of her husband and Heaven. She inquired all the time if we thought she'd get to Heaven one day. We told her that she didn't make the cut, there was no hope for the rest of us. A few days before her passing, she said, "You know, I've been thinking about it. If I don't get into Heaven, probably won't be much company there anyhow. But I think I'll make it." We, her family, are absolutely sure that she did.
Among so many things, her family will especially miss her lengthy, thoughtful, and self-examining pre-dinner prayers. If you ever really wanted to know how Irene was doing spiritually, physically, or sociologically, if you have a fondness for lukewarm dinner, and if you have especially strong neck muscles that don't strain bearing the weight of your dropped head, Irene was your girl for blessing the meal.
Our Mamie was a quiet, humble beacon of patient strength that lit the way for her loud, raucous family through so many trials, tribulations, celebrations, and life. May her kind presence and gentle humor continue to live on in all that ever knew her.
She belonged to a family of good, Christian folk; father, Tom Jones (who purportedly could walk on his hands for a mile), and mother, Affie (who sang like an angel in church). They taught her the unshakeable love of the Lord, the unconditional love of family, and that the willful sharing of the gifts of able hands, hard work, and homegrown vegetables were invaluable and vital to a good life. She grew up and enjoyed a sweet, simple life with her parents and her siblings Tim, Ira, Martha, and Ollie.
In 1944, she married the love of her life, Claude L. Scott, Sr. (known as C.L. to most, Claudy to her), a handsome fiddle player who thought she was the prettiest gal and best cook in town, with whom she shared 50 of the nicest years. They began married life in Columbia, North Carolina and settled in Morehead City where they raised their two kind daughters and three rambunctious boys: Jan, Patricia, Claude, Jr. (Buddy), Michael, and Allen.
She spent her middle years in Morehead City, and eventually Crab Point, tending to her children, her incredible garden, her friendships, and her mother, Affie, obligingly cooking whatever fish, mollusk, shellfish, or crustacean her grandchildren would drag up from the river. She would light up the gas stove for a single crab if that's what the catch consisted of.
She made her kitchen the heart of her home where many delicious meals, hearty laughs, and even the occasional pickin'-and-grinnin' session would take place. It was an ordinary kitchen like all others, but there was some kind of magic there.
In her later years and after the passing of her husband, Irene moved to Mill Creek to be nearer her church, where she was a stalwart servant and a much revered kitchen staple. She took great joy in throwing together lunches of beans and biscuits, rutabagas, collards, big limas or what-have-you for the "menfolk" who would be working on the church grounds on any given day. She was a humble servant, but at larger events, homecomings, funerals, and the like, you could observe her eyeballing her bowls on the serving table to see if her pot-of-whatever was emptied before the others. The age-old and ultimate unspoken church lady competition. If folks knew it was her dish, it usually would go first.
Not only was she known as a talented artisan of southern fried cuisine, she was also known for being impeccably clean. It was once said that by the time Irene was done washing her collards, she knew every leaf by name.
She developed deep and abiding friendships in the Mill Creek community and they received her as their own: taking her to lunches, taking her on trips, and including her in family events. For that, her family is ever grateful.
Irene was not a typical sort of prideful woman, but she did take deep satisfaction in the accolades garnered by her finely honed cooking abilities, her first-place prize for Banana Cake in 1939, and her children/grandchildren. In that order.
She had a keen wit, made soft-spoken but hilarious observations, and had an easy, slow-paced nature, but she could say more with one look than most folks could say with a whole mouth. Her love of all things gentle and easy extended to many aspects of her life: marriage, raising children, faith, and cooking. In most cases, she knew patience and time could fix just about anything. And if those failed or came up short, add a little salt and bacon grease.
In her later years, Irene (known as Mamie by those close to her) moved to a tidy cottage in Newport next to one of her daughters where she was able to maintain her independence but also be a short, grassy walk from family care. She enjoyed visits with family and friends, long car rides, waving to neighbors as they passed, pretending to dislike her daughter's dog, Toby (who adored her and of whom she would only refer to as Bozo), and ruining her supper with chocolate milkshakes.
Her last days were filled with family dinners, a sleepover with a dear friend, and thoughts of her husband and Heaven. She inquired all the time if we thought she'd get to Heaven one day. We told her that she didn't make the cut, there was no hope for the rest of us. A few days before her passing, she said, "You know, I've been thinking about it. If I don't get into Heaven, probably won't be much company there anyhow. But I think I'll make it." We, her family, are absolutely sure that she did.
Among so many things, her family will especially miss her lengthy, thoughtful, and self-examining pre-dinner prayers. If you ever really wanted to know how Irene was doing spiritually, physically, or sociologically, if you have a fondness for lukewarm dinner, and if you have especially strong neck muscles that don't strain bearing the weight of your dropped head, Irene was your girl for blessing the meal.
Our Mamie was a quiet, humble beacon of patient strength that lit the way for her loud, raucous family through so many trials, tribulations, celebrations, and life. May her kind presence and gentle humor continue to live on in all that ever knew her.
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