My last remaining grandparent, known conventionally enough as Grandma, passed away when I was 22. She died less than a year after her husband, Pop. I was six when Big Daddy died and nineteen when we lost Mam-maw. I don't actually have too many clear memories of Big Daddy, although attending his funeral at the ripe old age of six did make quite a lasting impression. Grandma and Pop were far more memorable to me. Daddy's side of the family were the redneck types that loved to watch the Cowboys, hunt deer, and drink. Many's the Thanksgiving I saw Uncle Walter "asleep" on the couch after killing a six-pack. And he still likes to laugh about the Christmas he played "pony" for me for what seemed like hours, and couldn't remember why he had rug-burns on his knees the following morning. Good old Uncle Walter.
I was the youngest of a small herd of cousins on my father’s side of the family. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Roy had two daughters so much older than me that they were more like aunts themselves than cousins. In fact, one of them had a son that was three months my elder. Aunt Joann and Uncle Walter had two adopted daughters that were supposedly biological sisters but were as different as night and day. Aunt Sue and Uncle Wil had one son; I was actually envious of his diabetes as a kid because whenever he came to visit he brought Diet Shastas that only he was allowed to drink. (I was also envious that he lived outside of Dallas, home to the much-celebrated Cowboys). And Daddy had my brothers and me.
We visited my grandparents' home just about once weekly, something I enjoyed even though the old man was hard of hearing and insisted on watching Hee-Haw at an insanely loud volume. Of course we also celebrated holidays there with the extended family. Grandma and Pop had lots of cards with which to play games or build card houses and lots of dominoes for creative efforts as well. Pop was an avid chewer of Juicy Fruit gum; he would hand out the occasional stick to us urchins when the mood struck him. He was also a pipe smoker and I can vividly recall him sitting on the deerskin chair on the screened porch, puffing away. I'm still irrationally fond of the smell of pipe tobacco. Pop mowed the land with a big-ass tractor that was so much fun to play on when not in use. He also maintained one heckuva big garden. I've never tasted macaroni and cheese or fresh green beans as good as Grandma's.
Grandma and Pop owned a lot of land in their itty-bitty town of 512 souls. Originally a cattleman and rice farmer, Pop gradually sold off chunks of his land until just a few acres remained around the homestead. The house was the only abode on a long road outside of what passed for "town," and was dark enough and creaky enough to be downright scary at night. Moss dangled lazily from the trees, creating a somewhat gloomy effect even on the brightest of days. Despite the isolation and aged appearance of the house, getting to spend the night at Grandma and Pop’s was always a treat. We had large family reunions under the tin shelter out in the yard every year right up until Pop died. I have so many memories of that house and yard: playing hide-and-seek and truth-or-dare with my cousins; hunting for Easter eggs; riding a horse for the first time; riding, and flipping, a three-wheeler for the first time; eating figs right off of the tree out front; and the awful image of a gutted deer suspended from a tree branch, its blood staining the ground.
From my earliest memories, Pop took a walk down their shale-and-dirt road every evening, cane in hand and cowboy hat on head. I loved his cane, too. Sometimes he'd crook you around the neck to pull you to him for a hug. He was such a sweet man. My dad is so like him physically. He's a sweetie, too. I once asked my mother how Daddy ended up so different from the rest of the "redneck" bunch on his side of the family. She said, "He was a redneck until I got a-hold of him."
These days I can see in Daddy just the slightest hint of, well, not redneck... hick, I suppose is a better word. And it just makes me love him that much more.
.
I was the youngest of a small herd of cousins on my father’s side of the family. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Roy had two daughters so much older than me that they were more like aunts themselves than cousins. In fact, one of them had a son that was three months my elder. Aunt Joann and Uncle Walter had two adopted daughters that were supposedly biological sisters but were as different as night and day. Aunt Sue and Uncle Wil had one son; I was actually envious of his diabetes as a kid because whenever he came to visit he brought Diet Shastas that only he was allowed to drink. (I was also envious that he lived outside of Dallas, home to the much-celebrated Cowboys). And Daddy had my brothers and me.
We visited my grandparents' home just about once weekly, something I enjoyed even though the old man was hard of hearing and insisted on watching Hee-Haw at an insanely loud volume. Of course we also celebrated holidays there with the extended family. Grandma and Pop had lots of cards with which to play games or build card houses and lots of dominoes for creative efforts as well. Pop was an avid chewer of Juicy Fruit gum; he would hand out the occasional stick to us urchins when the mood struck him. He was also a pipe smoker and I can vividly recall him sitting on the deerskin chair on the screened porch, puffing away. I'm still irrationally fond of the smell of pipe tobacco. Pop mowed the land with a big-ass tractor that was so much fun to play on when not in use. He also maintained one heckuva big garden. I've never tasted macaroni and cheese or fresh green beans as good as Grandma's.
Grandma and Pop owned a lot of land in their itty-bitty town of 512 souls. Originally a cattleman and rice farmer, Pop gradually sold off chunks of his land until just a few acres remained around the homestead. The house was the only abode on a long road outside of what passed for "town," and was dark enough and creaky enough to be downright scary at night. Moss dangled lazily from the trees, creating a somewhat gloomy effect even on the brightest of days. Despite the isolation and aged appearance of the house, getting to spend the night at Grandma and Pop’s was always a treat. We had large family reunions under the tin shelter out in the yard every year right up until Pop died. I have so many memories of that house and yard: playing hide-and-seek and truth-or-dare with my cousins; hunting for Easter eggs; riding a horse for the first time; riding, and flipping, a three-wheeler for the first time; eating figs right off of the tree out front; and the awful image of a gutted deer suspended from a tree branch, its blood staining the ground.
From my earliest memories, Pop took a walk down their shale-and-dirt road every evening, cane in hand and cowboy hat on head. I loved his cane, too. Sometimes he'd crook you around the neck to pull you to him for a hug. He was such a sweet man. My dad is so like him physically. He's a sweetie, too. I once asked my mother how Daddy ended up so different from the rest of the "redneck" bunch on his side of the family. She said, "He was a redneck until I got a-hold of him."
These days I can see in Daddy just the slightest hint of, well, not redneck... hick, I suppose is a better word. And it just makes me love him that much more.
.
13 comments:
I think that Truth or Dare with the cousins was *the* education of my formative years. Followed only by Truth or Dare with my high school friends.
We're not ones to go 'round spreadin' rumors
No really we're just not the gossipy kind
Oh you'll never hear one of us repeatin' gossip
So you better be sure and listen close the first time.
What a nice homage to your family!
Cheers,
GF
Oh Wendy, that was WONDERFUL to read about! I really enjoyed it. Esp since I grew up in Tex.
My father's father was "Pop" too and my mother's grandfather was "Big Daddy." I love those Southern naming traditions. I bet there aren't many "Big Mommas" around any more.
A really amazing piece of writing, thanks for putting it out there.
What a beautiful way to share your family with us, and what a wonderful writing style you have!
Thanks, ya'll. :)
Sporks - my mother's grandmother was "Big Momma." Oddly enough, her paternal grandmother was "Other Momma."
Shh..I'm not supposed to be here-
My father's parents both died during my childhood. Of the two I remember granddaddy the most. He loved checkers, fixing cars and coffee. My first taste of coffee came from his well worn stove-top coffee brewer. Mom was not amused, which made it even sweeter. :)
Special memory-terrific telling, I'm glad I took my break here. Thanks.
Beautiful post, Wen. It's nicely elegiac in tone, managing to be wistful without being overly sentimental—a tough balancing act when writing about childhood. I come away almost irresistibly reflecting on time spent with my own grandparents, especially those who resonate most with your Pop and Grandma, my own grandpa being a pipe-smoking farmer, my grandma having a world-class vegetable garden and a great talent for bread baking, and their house tuning in to Hee Haw every Saturday night. I remember it well.
You write wonderfully about your family. I hope my girls have such memories as they live their lives...
beautiful.
Watch out for eb. She's starting to repeat herself.
Nonetheless, I had the same question (but too shy to ask, I guess).
Okay, okay... eb and Deb, I think my grandparents' home has been on my mind because of a cheap-ass watercolor in an office I visit every now and then. Every time I go to that office, I look at the painting and am startled at how it evokes memories of Grandma and Pop. :)
Beautiful writing, Wen.
Sounds like we could be related. Rednecks & hicks galore, in my family.
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