Today is my grandmother’s birthday. She would have been 102 years old if she were still living.
When I picture childhood, I am sitting at her kitchen table with a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup steaming in front of me and a packet of “Granddaddy cookies” off to the side. Those were Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies, called that because my grandfather took one in his lunch every day. They were comfort food for a chronically puny kid who missed thirty or more days of school each year with bronchitis or walking pneumonia. Grandma’s house was my infirmary, my library, my television paradise, and most of all, my refuge.
She had already raised five children by the time I came along, with a sixth one to come a year to the day after me. Even so, she poured fresh patience and love into every grandchild who passed through her door.
On sick days she tucked me into her lap, swaddled in one of Aunt Susie’s afghans, and rocked while she sang “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.” Her voice and the chair moved in rhythm until I drifted off to sleep. If I wasn’t too sick, I’d camp out on the couch with tissues. Grandma could pick up more TV channels than we could in the country, so together we watched The Price Is Right, Dark Shadows, and The Guiding Light. I was too young for some of it, but I loved every minute.
At 2 o’clock every afternoon, the house fell quiet. That was when Grandma talked to someone named “Mama Fore,” and we were not to interrupt unless we were bleeding. Even then, it had better be a lot of blood.
Reading was my favorite part of sick days. Grandma was proud of her World Book Encyclopedias, and if I wasn’t too snotty, I could sit and read them. I flipped through pages on the Galapagos Islands and Greenland, just because the names sounded interesting. I read my aunt’s Nancy Drew books, the Little House series, The Silver Skates, Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and just about anything else I could get my hands on. Most people don’t read the encyclopedia, but I did, and I loved it.
Grandma had only a fourth-grade education, but she valued knowledge. She read the newspaper from front to back, even the grocery ads, and would read it aloud to me. I was reading The Roanoke Times by myself at four years old and have hardly missed a day since. Over fifty years of reading that paper ought to earn me something, don’t you think?
She let me ask questions, and I had plenty of them. If someone told me the sky was blue because God made it that way, I’d follow up with another “why?” Grandma didn’t mind. She encouraged that curiosity.
Her house held rituals I remember even now. Friday was hair day at Aunt Neva’s. Grandma would walk the three blocks there, crossing a four-lane road, sometimes with us tagging along on bikes if we were old enough.
There was always a rag bag in the hallway closet full of old sheets and fabric. We made doll blankets and superhero capes and were supposed to put everything back when we were done. I’m sure I forgot sometimes.
She made macaroni and cheese that I have never been able to replicate. It was baked until it was crusty on top and firm all the way through. I’m not even sure I liked it, but it was part of dinner more often than not.
When my brother and I stayed with her during the summer, we’d sometimes walk the mile and a half into downtown Salem. We bought balsa airplanes, paddle balls, or plastic model kits with our saved-up change. Before heading back, Grandma treated us to snow cones from Brooks Byrd Pharmacy. I always picked the blue one.
She hung laundry on the line whenever the weather allowed. She liked the way fresh air made it smell. She grew big, showy peonies along the side of the house. They were beautiful.
After my grandfather died when I was twelve, everything changed. He passed away shortly before he was fully vested in his pension at Kroger, where he worked, and the company refused to give my grandmother anything. That left her raising two boys on Social Security. My mother and the rest of the family stopped shopping at Kroger after that.
Grandma never learned to drive, and after Granddaddy died, that made life harder. My mother or uncles had to take her to the grocery store. I remember Mom tried to talk her into getting a license, but Grandma would not hear of it. None of her sisters drove either. I wonder why.
She had losses. She lost her husband. She lost my mother, her oldest child. She lost a brother and a sister. I was too young to really know how she felt, especially about my mother’s death. She didn’t talk about things like that. But when I was fifteen and headed to prom, I had my date drive all the way to Salem so Grandma could see my dress. She called my mother after I left and cried because I had thought to come. I was the oldest grandchild.
When I was older and it was no longer a long-distance call, I’d phone Grandma often. It didn’t matter what time it was. She always picked up, even if she had cousins running around the house. We talked about simple things—what was growing, what we cooked for dinner—but I miss those conversations more than I ever imagined I would.
Every year, she looked for the first robin and said it meant spring had come. I don’t think she liked winter much. I think she liked warmth, flowers, and children.
Sometimes now, when I’m lonesome, I talk to her. She doesn’t answer, at least not out loud, but I feel like she listens. She was always good at that. I might need a long talk with her very soon.
Happy birthday, Grandma.
