I wonder if the 16-year-old girl in this photo could have imagined that her granddaughter in 2024 would be writing about her and the legacy she has left her grandchildren.
It’s funny to me now that I do not remember more of my early childhood than I do, but you have to chalk that up to aging. However, the memories that I do recall are vivid. I was five years old when I could remember meeting my grandmother on my mother’s side for the first time. Of course, she was well acquainted with me, but I had no idea where we were going or who we would meet. I remember it was night because the bushes lined the dark walkway but were illuminated by tiny yellow flowers. I later learned that those were Lantana, and they literally grow all over Southern California; my mother guided my sibling and me up the two steps and onto the porch, and before she could knock, the door swung open, and a medium build brown-skinned woman with tears in her eyes pulled me into the door laughing and hugged me so warm and sweet that 50 plus years later, I still remember how I felt about it. I did not know who she was, but I liked her. They called her mother dear, but I always heard it pronounced as “mud deal.” It was years before I understood what they were calling her and even longer before I knew her given Christian name. I was privileged to live with my grandparents for a few precious years. I remember making mud pies and adding those pretty little yellow flowers on the top as icing. I remember the grape vines that grew in my parent’s backyard and getting in trouble for eating the grapes before they had ripened. They also had a German shepherd named “Peace,” he was so mellow with all the grandchildren that he allowed us to ride on his back like a horse. I still remember tightly wrapping both arms around his neck while he trotted happily around the backyard. It never occurred to me or any of us that the dog might bite us. We just played blissfully and unconsciously, aware of anything happening around us. Mother dear would make sure we had plenty of Bologna sandwiches for lunch, and it was best when she fried it and put it between that white bread that stuck to the roof of your mouth. However, I always remember looking forward to dinner time! It didn’t matter if she made one of her old-fashioned hamburger patties with mashed potatoes and gravy or her pinto beans with homemade cornbread. It was always delicious! I am so glad that I was always watching her in the kitchen. Even though I learned to make many of her recipes, the only place I have ever tasted those Pinto beans from my childhood was in a Soul Food restaurant in North Carolina. I remember that every bite brought a tear to my eye as my childhood memories came flooding back, and I was a little girl sitting at the kitchen table enjoying my meal with my family, many of who have passed on now.
I still miss her, and she’s been gone for 24 years. I was so fortunate to have had her in my life for so long. She lived long enough to greet my children the same way she had welcomed me all those years before. She was a Preacher’s wife who believed in the power of prayer. She was lovely and generous with her hospitality; she had quite a sweet tooth and loved snicker bars and green Jolly Rancher candies. They were everywhere in the house, and I still have an affinity for those candies because she loved them so much. I have memories of all types, and as I age, the details get a little fuzzy, but I was blessed to have been raised and loved by such a amazing woman. She was imperfect, but her love and concern for her family were genuine. She wanted her home to be a safe harbor for those needing comfort. Her smile and her laugh is still etched in my heart. She sparked my love of family, cooking, and hospitality; I will be forever grateful for that.