Grandmothers

I’ve been reading a book Edited by Nikki Giovanni called “Grand Mothers” (poems, reminiscences and short stories about the keepers of our traditions). I selected this book mainly because I’m adjusting to being a grandmother. It’s just been a little over a year now and I started thinking about the traditions I’d like to pass on to my grandchildren. I started thinking about the only grandparent that I knew – my mother’s mother, and the relationship we had. As one author so aptly put it, I was “grandparently disadvantaged”. What did I actually know about her? Herein is my grandmother story…..

My grandmother, Delia Hawthorne, born 2/16/1893, from as far back as I can remember, lived in Due West, South Carolina on a farm in a considerably large house. During the summer months, my mother would pack us up (my sister and me) with lunch and books to read and of course our Sunday best clothes and we would ride the railroad from Manhattan, NY to “the Big Woods”. My uncle would pick us up from the railroad station and drive us, as what seemed like a lifetime, to grandma’s house. We could tell we were getting close when the dirt changed from black to red. I guess it was like a reunion of sorts because my mother’s siblings that were in the area would all show up at grandma’s house, along with a host of my cousins. We weren’t allowed to go upstairs in that big house. I only remember going upstairs once.  What I found was a large room that looked almost like a hospital ward with beds and dust and aged covered windows. As far as I know, my grandmother was a sharecropper. There was always plenty of peas/beans to shell and corn to shuck. Watermelons were plentiful. We looked forward to “snack time” in the afternoon which always consisted of a nice big slice of watermelon from Grandma. We, my cousins and I, would sit on the porch, eat our slice and spit the seeds out into the yard where the chickens that lived under the house would rush to gobble them up leaving the yard spotless of seeds. Although I enjoyed the watermelon, my favorite was grandma\’s biscuits. She would make me wait until after everyone ate breakfast to see if any were left, and if so, then I could eat whatever was left. Truth be told, I\’d like to think that she made extra just because she knew I would be anxiously waiting to see if any were left for me. She also had pigs in the sty. There was a huge “slop can” (it was more like a barrel)  in the kitchen where we would empty the scrapings from each meal into and once the can was full, my uncle would empty it into a trough where the pigs would greedily rush to eat from. The best thing about the farm was that there was a peach tree right outside of the house. We would wait all summer for the peaches to get ripe enough for us to eat. Once they were ripe, it meant that it was almost time to head back to New York. I remember my grandmother being on the quiet side; her presence was palpable but not at all overbearing. She really didn’t talk to me much other than to give orders. She was always busy doing things – making breakfast, getting ready for dinner, shelling peas, shucking corn – keeping things in order. She was definitely a disciplinarian and kept an assortment of “switches” to keep all of us grandchildren in line. I always longed to have a great relationship with my grandmother. The following quote from one of the stories I read sums it up like this…..”For at fifty a grandmotherless child lives in me, still craves that special feeling that only a grandmother can give, I long to be a granddaughter and feel that bond, that unconditional love flowing, building the inner belief that lasts a lifetime that convinces the granddaughter, yes, indeed, she is someone special.” Unfortunately I never got a chance to know what that was like.

I think what I remember most as I grew older was grandma writing letters to my mother. Since I had a fascination with the mail service, I would usually be the one to eagerly wait for the mailman and bring the mail upstairs.  I could always tell when it was a letter from grandma because of the handwriting. She had the most beautiful handwriting ever. I took that for granted but when I think about it, she must have gone to school. At least every other week there would be a letter from grandma addressed to my mother. That’s really how I came to know her name, the return address always said “Delia Hawthorne”

I can’t help but wonder now that I’m older, just what her life was like. I wonder what she wrote about to my mother in those perfectly scripted letters that would arrive in the mailbox. I often wonder what it was like being a sharecropper. What was my grandfather like and how did they meet? I have so many unanswered questions. I don’t remember my grandmother ever hugging me and so it explains a lot as to how my mother didn’t hug me either. I supposed that was where my mother’s practicality came from. Forget all that emotional stuff, there were things that had to be done. As I understand it, my grandmother became a widow at a relatively young age. I was told that my grandfather died of “walking pneumonia” in my mother’s first year in college. Thus my mother dropped out of college and went home to help my grandmother. When grandma would visit us in New York she would spend two weeks or so with us, and then two weeks with the next child, etc. Still there was very little conversation between us. I looked forward to down time after supper because grandma and I would sit and play Chinese checkers. I actually got to be pretty good at it. Even at that, we talked very little. I often wondered if she wanted to know anything about me?  One thing that I knew for sure is that Grandma Delia hated New York! She was fearful of everything “city” – the noise, the traffic – too many people. She never wanted to be left alone in the apartment even though I assured her so many times that no one could get in. We lived in the projects on the 4th floor with it’s concrete walls and floors with three locks on the front door so there was no penetrating our “Fort Knox”. I really didn’t look at it from her perspective, after all, her environment had always been the opposite of mine. I guess my inability to put things in perspective, coupled with the fact that I was an ornery teenager by then, made our relationship even more strained. I could never do enough (in her eyes).

So as I reflect on those things, having grown up void of that special relationship I so coveted from the one grandparent I had, I’m determined to be the kind of grandmother that I always wanted to have. One thing for sure, I can’t change the past but if granted the opportunity, and I pray that the Lord will be gracious towards me,  I will be able to be that grandmother that provides all those wonderful things like hugs and kisses and special treats like staying up late and watching crazy cartoons and eating cookies and milk in bed…….shhhhh, but they will have to promise not to tell!!!!

“Grandmothers are the ones children go to for love, for stories, for comfort when they’ve been scolded, for guidance, and, of course, for treats”…….Mildred Bollinger Andrews