I have come to realize that when I tell a person I was born and raised in the South, their minds eye automatically turns to Tara, magnolias, large columns on the family home and sweet tea. Now I suppose that could be the case of some, but for me, it couldn’t be more wrong. No, I was not raised with that silver spoon in my mouth, mine was more of a plastic spoon, one that was used, then washed, then used again because we had to make things last.
Welcome to 1957, the year that brought us the Soviet Union launching Sputnik, Elvis Presley buying Graceland, and I was born. Not sure as to why “1957” has never been a Jeopardy category but that was the year, in Alabama, Anniston to be exact, that a baby boy was born to a little lower than middle class family that would eventually include one dad, one mom and four little one that I called my family.
Seems that every family in those days, usually had a set or two of grandparents. And, yes, there were some families that had more than two, but we were not allowed to talk about those circumstances because it usually meant the unspoken word, the word that had to be spelled in a whisper, d-i-v-o-r-c-e, was involved. Some families had lost a grandparent or two, but when I was young, I had all four. Grandmother and Papa, and Grannie and Papa, were the names we were taught. Grandmother and Papa were maternal and Grannie and Papa were paternal.
Grandmother was great and fulfilled all the qualifications of her role, but then everyone has a Grannie. That one special person that loves and hugs and fixes scraped knees, dries the tears in our eyes and just makes life livable as a child.
My Grannie’s house was the exact opposite of the southern plantation. It was a four room box with no basement and no attic…two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room with a fireplace. At the time I remember, there were five people living in the house with no closets or a bath. They just made do. I guess back then, you just made do the best you could and went on about your business because you had no “Jones” to try and beat or impress. The most I ever saw of anyone back in the day, trying to impress, was at the county fair where someone’s cooking or canning or prized calf won a first place blue ribbon.
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But since I started writing this story, a lot of things have changed since the days of my Grannie, and youth, and childhood dreams that are now just that, childhood dreams. Those were the days of wonder and hope. Now, I am lucky to be surviving.
You see, this story started out as a writing assignment for a class using the following three words in a story – Grandma, attic and disgust. Having started the story a couple of weeks back, I left it simmering on the back burner of my life due to construction in my home and the election. Now going on the second week of construction and the election is over, I felt, for a while, that maybe I should just turn the stove off and let this story get cold. But after a few days of doing some soul searching and mind processing of issues that deeply troubled me, I picked my butt up off the couch and turned the stove back on.
Why, you may be asking yourself? Because I was disgusted with people. I was questioning myself, my values, my friends, my faith, all because I was letting the little people win over my mental health. And now, I refuse to allow that to happen to me. I am not responsible for the world, I am responsible for me and I had let myself get into such a shape that I wanted no one in my bubble except a chosen few. And still today, I am the same except that my bubble has increased in size.
My councilor says that writing things down can sometimes give a person self help, which I totally agree. I have gone from a recluse to a more, and I hate to say because one day my mother may read this, an adult in my way of thinking. I feel like I have been tested and tried, gone through a little fire, and have been disappointed in many. But on the other side of that fire, I came out stronger and maybe even a little wiser on my outlook of “everything is coming up roses,” especially when the world is full of poison ivy. But at least I know how to tell the difference!
Maybe I am at the place my Grannie was when I was a child. Maybe my grand kiddos will tell a similar story about their Pops one day about how wise he was when they were a kid. Maybe I have cleaned out the attic of my mind, see, I used one of the words there, and tossed out the garbage that cluttered such a small space.
Well, that is all the words used now…Grandma (Grannie), attic and disgust, but you may be wondering about the cat head biscuits. In case you have never had a cat head biscuit made with love from a Grannie, you have never tasted heaven because as Grannie makes those biscuits from scratch and flours and rolls out the dough by hand, all the while thinking about her little Keith, there is no describing just how love tastes!
So, here’s to Grannie, cat head biscuits… and me.
A View From Bogaville 