Dispatches from Home: My Sweet Granny from Home!
The mere mention of Christmas evokes memories of times, places, loved ones, and friends, perhaps now long gone. Remember twinkling Christmas tree lights reflecting off Shiny Brite ornaments? The smell of cinnamon sticks simmering on the stove? A gooey-delicious pecan pie? A loved one’s perfume? A dear friend’s cologne? Crisp, cold air? Crunchy snow? The high-pitched laughter of children opening presents on Christmas morn? Tears when it came time to return home, to leave those who you loved, hoping you’d see them again next Christmas?
My Christmas memories revolve around only three people—my mom, my dad, and my sweet Granny from D’Lo. If you’re around me, it won’t take long for me to mention my sweet Granny. She was, to say the least, a spirited lady. I grew up on her stories of the Great Depression in Simpson County. The hard work of maintaining a farm. The poverty of those days. And the hope for a better future. She could tell stories about those days like none other.
As a child, I spent many summers with her, and I’d giggle myself to sleep thinking of the crazy, oddball characters she’d created for me—those now mythical characters that inhabit that somewhat magical place—D’Lo. I learned many things from Granny, the most lasting of which was a love of life—life, with its mountaintops and valleys, its effervescent days and dark nights—a life lived to the fullest, mindful of God, family, and friends.
The snap I’ve provided was taken on Christmas Day, 1984. Little did I know that this was to be Granny’s last Christmas. Not long into the New Year, Granny started losing weight, was nauseous all the time, and her sweet smile was strained due to the pain inside her; cancer had invaded her old body. It’s a stupid disease that eats away at the very thing that gives it life. She was hospitalized at Memorial Hospital but was never alone.
Dad would pick Mom up in the morning after she’d spent the night. After dropping her off at our house, he would return to the hospital and stay the day. I would stay after work until Dad brought Mom back for the night shift. My Uncle Ellis and Aunt Georgia were kind enough to watch Granny over the weekend.
For two months, she suffered. Her smile disappeared. The twinkle in her bright blue eyes faded. She prayed for God to call her Home. Each night, when I left the hospital, I told Granny that I loved her. She would look at me, muster a pained smile, and say, “I love you too, Andy.”
The call came early one morning; it was still dark. My dear mother’s voice wavered as she confirmed what I already knew–Granny was in the loving arms of Jesus. At Granny’s funeral, it dawned on me that the last thing she had said to me was, “I love you.”
This Christmas, it’s just me. Mom, Dad, and Granny are all gone. But on Christmas Day, I’ll sit in the same rocker that Granny and I rescued from a dusty attic. I’ll try to remember her voice, her laughter, and her stories. Most of all, though, I’ll remember her love–her love for me, her love for life, and her love for God and his Son, Jesus Christ. Life is fleeting, my friends. Tell those you love…that you do. Merry Christmas!
(Originally posted December 19, 2019)