Tag Archive | grandmother


I was going through some old pictures last week when I came across one I had not seen in some time.

Someone decided to bend the top portion, perhaps to put into a wallet, I don’t know.

I thought, “I will have to get it restored because of that crease that runs right through the  face of the person in the photo.”

It is a picture of my grandmother. She died in 1964. It is the only picture I have of her, full body.

I loved my grandmother. I still think of her often. My sister and I lived with my grandparents for three years.

It was the country and the living was neither easy (for them) or fancy.

I loved it, was not even mindful of what they did not have.

I just loved being there, being with them.

Well, more my grandmother more than my grandfather who was rather taciturn and rarely interacted at any length with us kids.

My grandmother was not beautiful. She was not pretty. I’m not sure you would even call her handsome.

I see that now. I did not see that then.

I only saw her, only heard her laughter, enjoyed the food she cooked, especially the steak and gravy with rice or those fat red sausages served for Sunday breakfast after Grandpa’s Saturday trip to the  market.

They lived in the country with very few modern conveniences.

No indoor plumbing, no electricity or gas, chickens on the yard, wood stoves, tin roof, well water.

I do not remember ever being bored.

This picture takes me home.

After all, home is where the heart is.

All these years later, my heart is still her home!


LOVELY DAY: Another Flight of Fiction

She thought the rain would never end.

Day after day after day of rain, rain, rain.

She even tried her childhood chant,

“Rain, rain, go away; come again some other day.”

It didn’t work.

The rain continued.

Day after day after day of rain, rain, rain.

“Catch some of that rainwater, gal?”

Her grandmother’s voice spoke to her from the past.”

“Nothing like rainwater for a hair softening shampoo. It’s God’s fresh water gift to us and the earth. It’s just downright refreshing!”

God’s fresh water gift did not enthrall her now as it had all those years ago when she had gleefully run out into a rainstorm to try and catch it all in her little metal bucket.

She stood and peered out the window.

“Rain, rain, rain, here to stay; I came outside just to play.”

The little girl wore a black and white polka dot rain coat with matching hat. Her rain boots were bright red.

Her round little face was turned upright, mouth wide open as though she was trying to catch every drop of rain before it hit the ground.

Her mother walked behind her, a smile on her face as she watched her little one celebrate the downpour.

When did childhood joy turn into adult angst?

Her husband was more than a little surprised to look out the upstairs window and see his sixty-five year old wife in a black 30 gallon garbage bag and a supermarket plastic bag on her head wearing her old cowboy boots splashing down the street in the rain.

So were the neighbors.

She did not care.

“Rain, rain, here to stay; I just came outside to play!”









I am a blank book junkie.

My bookshelves are filled with blank books of all sizes.

Some are completely filled with my writings but most are not.

This weekend I ran across one of those blank books, one that is completely filled with my writings.


Musings from 2004.

Different thoughts from a different time.

At the very beginning of this re-discovered blank book are my musings about my grandson and my granddaughter.




Blank Book Gold

“There is something to be said for a big-eyed, toothless welcome one receives from an eight month old granddaughter, or when one is the recipient of a delighted hug from a five year old grandson.

I call him Ganny’s man. She is Ganny’s girl. Woman just sounds too womanish for a girl and Ganny’s boy sounds like . . . well, boy is a definite no-no for this offspring of the Jim Crow South.”

He calls me “Ganny,” the growling “r” having been kicked to the curb by his grandmother. His big blue eyes (or, are they grey?) draw me into their depths. He is “all boy” (as my late husband used to say). My girl rearing instincts (three daughters) keep me jittery as he dashes around corners and jumps over hurdles.

‘Mom,’ my eldest reminds me (with just a note of exasperation), ‘He’s a boy! He will be alright.’

How did she make peace with this rough and tumble mass of energetic excitement, she the oldest of three girls?

Oh, yeah, twelve years of teaching a class of Kindergarten boys.

Ganny’s girl is all smiles and chortles. The dimples of her late PaPa run down the sides of her cheeks when she smiles. I make funny faces just to recall their delight.

She crawls across the floor like a wired whirlygig. Everything captures her attention and everything has to be experienced through her mouth. I watch her like a hawk but she still manages to pop something in her mouth, then gives her secret away with her “cat who swallowed the canary” look.

She is so curious, tuned in to everything that goes on around her. Sometimes, it looks as though her head is on a swivel, she turns it so fast to try and take in everything. She is going to be a talker. She talks right now — we just can’t understand what she’s saying.

One day we will and when that happens, I will tell her about PaPa and his dimples that run down the side of her cheeks.”

Blank Book Gold!