My Granny was my teacher... A Tribute Story to my Granny

Today I walked into my Grandmother’s house for the last time, the old screen door closing a most memorable and treasured chapter of my life.

I can only describe this day as one I wish hadn’t happened.

It’s never easy to say goodbye to the ones you love, especially when all you knew about the person was simply love.

It has been two days since we buried Granny.

I imagine that there are better times of the year to be put under the ground than in mid July in Georgia.

Perhaps a Fall day when death is a natural part of the scenery and the wind can help to dry the tears from one’s eyes.

It’s a dog day in this peach state and it isn’t even August yet.

I guess I should stop talking about the weather, but the weather is always important to the people in the South.

For my beloved Granny, the sight of a dark cloud meant fear; she would grab me by the hand and together we would walk the nearest neighbor that was home for safety.

On hot sunny days we would spend our time on the porch rocking to the rhythmic music of nature and sipping Sweet Tea and sometimes Mountain Dews with straws, just being.

That is something my Granny knew how to do really well.

For her, life was simple.

There was no need to analyze things and to have deep complicated conversation.

One just did her work, loved as deeply as possible and watched the days pass.

I remember her calling her neighbor Mrs. Lolamae everyday, she only lived a few yards away.

I could almost tell you what words would be said before they were spoken.

It was always something like, “ Hey, how you doing today?

Well that’s good. Yes, I am doing fine.

Just got the laundry on the line and the chicken’s in the oven.

Well, you have a good day now.”

Sometimes I would notice that a silence or a long pause would occur during their time on the phone like they were listening to something other than their own voices.

It took a few years for me to figure that one out.

I now know that the main thing going on was just a need for connection and that was about it.

I still look back and think about the many simple, yet profound things that my Granny would say.

One that has always remained with me is a riddle type of verse that she never tired of saying to me.

She would say, “ Janet, I had a dream last night that I was awake and when I woke up I was asleep.”

Perhaps she liked to say that over and over because she found it to be funny.

I can still hear her laughing after she said it.

However, I think she was trying to give me a message about life, “ Don’t take this life too seriously honey.

What you think is real may be a dream and what you think is a dream may be real and remember to laugh.”

Forgive me for straying , but it may be what I have to do from time to time.

There are so many memories.

The rest of my family kindly gave me some alone time to go through the house and pick out what I wanted to keep of hers.

This is really hard to do; all I can do is remember, misty-eyed memories of her sitting around with her hands propped upon her Santa like belly and her little squinted eyes twinkling.

Just a month ago I stayed here with her for a week and that is when we said our goodbye in our very own personal way.

She knew and I knew that the time was fast approaching.

I rubbed her back and her feet as I so often did as a child with the Baby Magic lotion.

We told old stories of funny things we had experienced together, we laughed until we cried.

It was one of the most painful times of my life to be there that week watching and feeling my Granny’s call to death.

I am sitting on the porch; I want to take it all in.

I want every delicious detail imprinted in my heart and mind forever.

Where do I start and where do I end?

This wonderful woman and this old house have meant so very much to me.

This is the only home that I have known that has remained the same, that has been here since the day I arrived as my parent’s new baby girl.

The same home that has welcomed me with the most unconditional and loving arms.

It was here that I returned again and again and always found a blanket for my often cold and lonely soul.

No matter what battles I fought in the rest of my existence, which are too numerous to mention, I always found the needed rest and the resurrection of my purpose right here.

My Granny was my teacher.

She was the love of my life.

Granny's house was built in the late 1800s.

A four room wooden structure with tall ceilings, a tin roof and a front porch that was screened in by the family in the early seventies.

Oh I forgot the tiny toilet room, that would have made it a five room house.

There is nothing modern about the place except for the shower that she had installed.

Before that, the only facilities for bathing were the kitchen and bathroom sinks and large tin tubs that were kept on the back porch.

The most outstanding feature of this house is its soul, something that modern houses lack until their walls have heard the stories through the years and have settled with the passage of time.

I am sitting in one of the rockers now and looking through the porch screens.

Across the street is Uncle Walker's trailer and the vacant lot next to it.

The only fond memories of Uncle Walker happen to be the vacant lot that would come alive during the spring when all these wild daffodils would appear.

A beautiful sight indeed.

The only other memories of Uncle Walter were stiff like too much starch on a shirt.

He was my Granny's brother, but he lacked her softness.

God bless him as I know he suffered from terrible arthritis and loneliness and Lord only knows what else that was never shared.

Directly in front of the house are two grand old pecan trees that were planted as seedlings long before Granny moved in.

Now they tower over the roof of the house.

These trees not only yielded munchies when we were hungry but also extra cash when in season.

I am looking over to the side of the house where she liked to sit where her hydrangeas of blue & lavender & pink & green were planted.

They were her favorite flowers.

Just beyond is Mrs. Evelyn's house and the Cedar tree that we children used to play under.

So many fond memories that tree brings to me.

Not only did it smell wonderful but it also provided a lacy green canopy to hide under.

To the left is the creek that still works its way toward the street, and beyond that is the Mullis family house.

The memories are coming through so easily now.

I am remembering how the frogs would gather after it rained, hopping all over the place.

Sometimes we would sit here and count them.

It seemed as if the rain would bring the frogs down from the sky and as soon as they would hit the ground, they would hatch into various sizes and hop on to their next destination.

Along with the Summer rains came the mosquitoes as well.

I am remembering the times when the mosquito truck would come by and release this giant cloud of poisonous smoke and how we kids would go out and dance around in it.

Perhaps that is my problem?

We had no knowledge of how dangerous that was.

Those times were innocent and uncomplicated for the most part.

Ignorance could be bliss.

I am still tasting the syrupy sweetness of her tea, the kind of sweetness that sticks to your teeth long after the swallow.

No wonder I have made the dentist chair so familiar.

I am still hearing the hum of the fan that sits in her bedroom window, no wonder the sound of a fan makes me want to sleep.

I have never felt the same comfort that she provided me with.

There is no one that can do that for me now.

Well, I've got to move on.

I walk into the living room and just above the couch is the guardian angel picture that she loved so much.

It's the one where the angel is helping the children to cross the bridge.

 She sure knew how to do that.

The rays of the sun are coming though the lace curtains the same way they have for as long back as I can remember.

Everything is in it's place.

All the pictures of her beloved children and grandchildren and the whatnots in the bookcase.

She had so many of them and took great pride in her collection, most of which came from her children's travels.

In the corner sits the same old black phone, the first and only one she ever got from the phone company, 4-2162 was and still is the phone number for a few more days.

I just want to look over and see her sitting in her favorite chair.

I just want to hear her say, " Janet honey you've got to get up and get ready for school."

God what I would do to have a chance to talk with her again, to touch her soft flesh and smell her oh so familiar smell.

I can tell you that it was a mixture of Ivory Soap, a dab of White Shoulders perfume and a touch of Vick's Vapor Rub and perhaps a tiny bit of moth ball.

I don't know about you , but I think that it's interesting how we humans live out our lives thinking mostly about the future or the past not being able to truly live in the moment.

So many beautiful and simple truths are being revealed and somehow, it seems to me at least, that it takes some kind of catastrophic event like death to catch our attention to what truly is important.

What if we lived our lives as if, "this is it, this might be the last time that I will be able to lay my eyes on you, the last time I will be able to tell you how I feel about you."

Well, I know that it sounds too far-fetched, but this whole experience is making me re-think the way in which I walk this world and the things I take for granted everyday.

In the kitchen, a radio still sits on the enamel-covered shelf.

I can close my eyes and remember sitting at the green metal topped table in the morning eating cereal and listening to the tunes that were playing.

You know how music always captures the years of your life; I hear songs like, “ Just call me Angel of the morning baby, just brush my cheek before you leave me baby.”

I always thought that the singer was saying, “ Just brush my teeth before you leave me, “In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand”, “The Wichita Lineman”, just to name a few of the many, I must have been about 6 or 7 years old.

The tunes of course, changed over the years.

When I first came here to live with my Granny, my Father lived here as well from time to time.

My Mother had decided she needed a break and told my Father that he could take care of me for awhile, which really meant that my Granny could.

I was confused about the whole event but I knew that this was home for me.

The school was only about five or six rural country blocks away from here.

Granny showed me how to get there and get home.

On the first day, my Dad took me and I was to walk home afterward.

I proudly set off on my new journey but somehow I got off onto the wrong street.

I began to cry and just kept crying louder with every step.

I was saved by a newlywed couple that happened to be out in their yard.

I’ll never forget the tenderness that they showed me.

A  cookie and some milk helped to calm me while they phoned the police to report a lost little freckled-faced girl.

The Officer came, asked me what my full name was and promptly returned me to 502 Pine Street.

Granny was on the porch when we pulled up.

She thanked the Officer, walked me inside and she just put her arms around me and held me close to her and told me not to worry, that it wouldn’t happen again.

She told me that this town we lived in was really small but that because I was still small it seemed much bigger.

She was right; it never did happen again, I became familiar with all the streets, the trees and the landmarks that would take me back to my new home.

Granny never owned or drove a car that I knew of.

She would make a list of the groceries that she needed and sometimes we would walk downtown to the Piggly Wiggly store or Uncle Walker would drive us there.

If Uncle Walker didn’t take us back, the grocery store would have the groceries delivered to us.

Sometimes Granny would just call them if her list was not too large, and they would kindly do the shopping for her.

Everyone always seemed to look out for one another then.

On the kitchen table are three large photo albums and a not from my Aunt Jean, telling me there are some pictures of my Dad and Mom that I probably want, and that there is something on Granny’s bed for me.

I open to the marked places and stare at the small black and whites of my Father and Mother, proudly displaying their new baby daughter.

I cannot remember my parents ever being together. They married when my Mom was sixteen and my Dad twenty one.

They spent just enough time to bring me into the world and divorced a little over a year later.

Thank goodness that Grandparents don’t divorce their children just because their own children can’t seem to work things out.

I can tell you that without my Granny’s love there would have been little sweetness in my life.

I walk into the bedroom that is off from the kitchen, taking note as I do that the green colored door onto the back porch still has the wooden lock.

It’s a simple piece of wood that one just turned across the frame of the door to the wall and that was how this house was locked for many years.

In this bedroom next to Granny’s there are two iron-tube beds, a chifforobe, and a make-shift closet along the wall with all of her clothes hanging upon it.

The two beds in this room and the two in her room were where we all shared sleeping quarters along with the pallets on the floor and the living room couch when the family gathered during holidays.

Since weren’t doors between the bedrooms, I can remember the Walton Family effect.

Everyone said their goodnights and shared in the snoring and the silly human qualities.

There are many funny episodes of gas passing and sleep talking that took place.

Those stories that I spoke of earlier that Granny and I shared bringing our laughter to tears.

The stories that only families tell and appreciate.

I walk along her make-shift closet and run my hands and nose along her clothes trying to capture her essence somehow.

I take the black cashmere coat that my Aunt Jacqueline had given to her and put it on.

It fits me perfectly and I know that she would not have wanted tossed or given away.

Walking into her room I see the beds made as neatly as ever with light cotton sheets and blankets and the box sitting there.

I can feel my heart-beat become heavier as I walk over and see in her handwriting “Janet Teresa”.

I know what is in this box, and as the tears begin to fall, I lay down on her bed, my head on her feather pillow.

I cannot help but feel this great loss and emptiness inside.

She has really gone and she will not return.

My feelings are mixture of joy for her that she no longer suffers, and of anger that she has left, and remorse that I don’t feel that I loved her nearly as much as I would have liked, or could have.

That what I am now sharing with you was never spoken in a way that might have professed my deep love and appreciation for all that she so unconditionally gave while she was alive.

I sit up and open the box and in it is the clock that hung above the second bed in this room, a clock that was given to Granny from Aunt Jean shipped to her from Germany in 1957.

This clock has hung in the same place all of the years since I arrived.

As a child, I would pretend that the clock was my very own home.

It was unique and was made to resemble a Swiss Alps style cottage.

It was three dimensional with an A-frame roof, two picture windows along the back wall with real cloth curtains that held views of the mountains outside and another cottage in the distance.

In the corner was a wood burning stove, a shelf with some whatnots and a plate displayed, a twin size bed with a soft mattress, a wooden table with chairs and a vase of flowers on top.

In the ceiling there was an actual light, on the roof were rocks and just outside of the cottage a set of skis.

Underneath the floor was a decorative painted clock face with chains that hung down below with weights that helped the clock to tick tock and keep time.

To the side there was a string with a wooden ball on the end and a winder for the music box inside.

When I was a child, I loved to pretend, and, to add to that joy, I would wind up the music box and pull on the string.

The light in the ceiling would come on and music would begin playing.

My little mind and heart were delighted as they still are today.

In the box atop the clock is an envelope and I tremble as I open it and begin to read;

“Dear Janet,

I know how much this clock means to you.

I know how much this home has meant to you.

I want you to keep this clock as a reminder of our shared lives.

I want you to know that even though my time has come for leaving that I will never forget the memories we have shared.

Take this clock honey and keep it near you in your own home and let it be a constant reminder that my love for you will go on and on.

I love you, I always will.

Granny

P.S. Remember to love your Daddy and Mamma. They did the best they could do at the time.”

I hug the letter and cry and endless stream of tears, thinking of the passage of time.

She was the sweetest gift to me, a blessing from God to provide a soft place where I could rest and leave my worries behind.

~ Janet Maddox