My grandmother went into the hospital on Saturday, March 29th and we buried her on Saturday, April 4th. She was 92 years old. I'm still in a somewhat surprised and confused state-of-mind. Honestly, I didn't think I would be this upset. I haven't been as close with her over the past few years as I was when I was younger. I've been busy and I didn't go visit with her much over the past year or so.
I know she's gone, yet, I feel as if I could still jump in my Jeep, swing by the store for a bag of her favorite bite-sized Mounds candy bars, drive over to Autumn Care, the nursing home she's been in for several years, and we could sit in her room and have a chat. On the other hand, I don't know if I could even look at the wrapper of those candy bars without bursting into tears. She'd always light up like a Christmas tree when I'd bring her a bag of them. They, and a host of other things, will forever remind me of my "Mamaw".
She always had wintergreen Certs in her pocketbook. She never once said a thing about me or my cousins sneaking them every chance we got. I'll never forget the day I discovered the stash of them she kept in her dresser drawer. It was then I realized she wasn't just buying those Certs for herself, she got them for us, too.
She always kept a bottle of Nivea lotion on her dresser. When I was a little kid I thought that stuff was for old ladies. At first I didn't care too much for the smell of it. Then it became the scent I most associated with Mamaw. I remember how she'd rub it on her hands and arms then give me a hug. My whole head would be enveloped in the scent of that lotion. Over the years I've discovered that Nivea is not only a damn good lotion, it's one of the few that is okay for a vegetarian, eco-conscious person like myself to use. I'm sure my Mamaw didn't think about that. She just liked the stuff.
She made the absolute best gingerbread in the world. Not gingerbread that's used for cookies and table-top houses at Christmas. I'm talking about the real, old fashioned kind that's made in loaves like bread. It's dark, moist and has a sharp bite of ginger with a hint of clove. The smell, when it's baking, is enough to make you drool all over yourself. I used to hover all around her kitchen, waiting impatiently for her to pull it out of the oven and set it on the table. She always made me wait about 10 minutes for it to cool before she would take it out of the pan. Though it was really still too hot to hold, I'd snatch a piece and stuff it in my mouth. I didn't care if I scalded my tongue and burned my fingers. Fresh from the oven was the best way to eat that stuff. I'm really gonna' miss Mamaw's "famous" gingerbread.
I got my love of quilting from her. I even have some of the last quilt squares she started packed away in my studio closet. Mamaw made quilts the old fashioned way ...
handmade. My Mamaw and Papaw were poor, so she would collect old shirts, dresses, aprons, or whatever cloth she could get her hands on. Each piece of fabric was cut out individually from a pattern made out of paper or cardboard. All the pieces were sewn together by hand. Then, the entire thing was hand quilted either on her lap or on a quilt frame. She never used a modern rotary cutter or a sewing machine to make her quilts. No, Sir. They were entirely handmade. That, y'all, was a true labor of love.
I remember one she made for me when I was about eight years old. It was a traditional scrap quilt in a basic block pattern. It wasn't fancy but it was made from hundreds of different scraps of material. No two pieces were the same. I used to sit on my bed and look at all the different fabrics and how she'd cut them out in what is called a "fancy cut". If the fabric had a particular design, say butterflies and flowers, she would make sure she cut the fabric so the butterfly would be in the center of the square or triangle.
But the best quilt of hers I've ever had was one she made out of big scraps of stuff. Being rather thrifty, she used an old worn out quilt as the batting layer between the newer quilt layers. Because it was so thick, the new quilt was a "tied quilt", meaning instead of stitching all the layers together she used bits of yarn in strategically placed spots to tie the layers together so they wouldn't shift. What resulted wasn't a very pretty quilt but it was without doubt the heaviest and warmest quilt I've ever had. I loved that quilt like a security blanket. I used it for years and years. It quite literally fell apart from age and use. It was ugly but I'll admit I still miss the damn thing.
Mamaw had the greenest thumb of anyone I've ever known. I swear she could grow flowers from a bare stick. Although Mamaw didn't have a good eye for landscaping she loved flowers and growing things in her yard. Every place she ever lived felt the touch of that green thumb. She spent hours digging, planting and tending her yard. I can't tell you how many times I've pulled up in the driveway to see my grandmother's backside in the air as she bent over to pinch off a faded bloom or poke some new seedling in the dirt.
She loved birds and was a sharpshooter with a sling-shot against marauding cats who dared stalk her bird feeders. I think the only time I ever heard her say a "cuss word" was in respect to some cat getting in her yard and killing one of her birds.
I won't say she was a perfect grandmother. Mamaw had her quirks and idiosyncrasies. At times you'd want to duck tape her mouth shut. She never stopped talking. She was a hypochondriac as well. I've seen her so mad at one doctor who didn't agree with her diagnosis she could have chewed nails. She'd gone in, barely shuffling her feet and leaning heavily on her cane. When he said she was healthy as a 40 year old woman (she was 60 at the time) Mamaw literally jumped off the exam table and stormed out of his office, cane left propped against the wall. Her kitchen cabinet looked like a pharmacy.
But I know she loved me. She would have done anything for me. Would have given me her last dime if I'd needed it. The Saturday she was taken to the hospital she told any and all who would listen about her granddaughter, the artist. She was my biggest fan. And because of that, Mamaw was the only one I still let call me by my nick-name, the nick-name my father gave me the day I was born. I was premature and weighed 5 lbs. like a bag of sugar. Thus, he dubbed me "Suggie", pronounced with an "sh" like sugar. It took me sixteen years to convert the family to calling me by my given name, Carol, and shed that damn nick-name. The only hold-out was Mamaw. She tried, but 98% of the time she'd forget and call me Suggie.
When she was taken from the hospital back to the nursing home on Tuesday she was sedated with Valium and pretty much unresponsive. Later that afternoon she roused up a little and opened her eyes. She was still kinda' loopy and asked me who I was. I leaned over and said, "Hey Mamaw, it's Carol." She looked confused. So I said, "It's me, it's Suggie." It was the last time she fully opened her eyes and looked at me with recognition. Even though she never opened her eyes again for me, she knew I was there. I'm really glad of that.
I do have regrets and I know it's only natural to do so. I can sit here and say I should have done this or I should have done that, but I know it's a moot point. I can't change or redo any part of my past in regards to my Mamaw. But I can remember her. I can celebrate those memories in my heart. I can say she knew I loved her and I knew she loved me. Here at the end, that's all that matters.
Namaste, y'all ...
