I dreamed of my ancestors last night. Specifically my maternal grandmother and great-grandmother.
Maybe it was hearing my kids watching The Lion King In the car and listening to Rafiki tell Simba that his father lives on inside of him, that impacted my dreams, maybe it was something deeper. But there I was, in a room with both women sitting around a fire while my grandma folded baby clothes. We said very little, we didn’t need to. Just their presence reminded me of the depths of their absence.
Her grandma name to me was “Mammie” and she would invite me to bring my baby’s clothes over to her house anytime. She would wash them, dry them and even take the extra step to iron them. She stepped into the busy chaos of my mama life and would do something so simple and so loving as ironing my baby’s clothes. I can see her now with her ironing board set up at her kitchen table, washing all my little ones’ clothes with the sweet-smelling Dreft, and placing the little onesies, socks, baby bibs, and shirts and ironing them while folding them into neat little piles to give back to me.
The kitchen was truly her heart with an outstretched hand.
It was a place where the smell of something delicious like fudge, bean soup, or cornbread greeted you every time you walked in. She was an incredible cook and her favorite and most delicious dish to cook was her state fair, blue-ribbon winning, Peanut Butter Fudge. This is perhaps her most secretive recipe as many have watched her make the fudge, but as of this day, nobody can make it like Mammie could.
When I was little she would teach me how to cook her Zucchini bread and let me sit on her couch and watch cartoons while she baked fresh oatmeal Scotties in the oven. She would bring them in hot on a plate with a glass of cold milk and continuously ask, “Can I get you anything else honey?” She would go to Meijer and buy extra of whatever meal she was making because she always expected company from one of her children or grandchildren and she always wanted to be prepared to give away the extra food or have you over for dinner. You could invite or bring anyone with you and she didn’t mind.
There was always room for more people at her table.
When her family outgrew the kitchen table and then the dining room table, she would set up folding tables in the living room so everyone could eat. We would gather around that table and she was always the last to sit down. She was always on her feet, serving or doing the dishes. But when she would finally take a seat in her favorite recliner, she would switch the channel to cooking shows. She loved watching other people cook and learning the recipes. I can see her feet now covered in comfy socks (my grandmother believed everyone should have multiple pairs of incredibly comfy warm fuzzy socks), one leg tucked under her knee, rocking that chair back and forth, back and forth, holding all the babies that our family kept producing. “Mammie” was the name she sang to every new baby as they joined the family and they would bounce happily on her lap as she sang “Mammie’s little baby loves shortening, shortening. Mammie’s little baby loves shortening bread.” The word “Mammie,” had become prestigious, like an honor to be carried.
She had an incredibly generous heart that was always slipping $20 bills to her grandkids every time they walked in the door. She would always say “Go buy yourself something special honey” with our southern Kentucky accent. If we needed anything, she was the first to purchase it for us and our kids. You might say my ancestors had a bit of a shopping-for-stress relief problem, and I definitely inherited that trait. However, the target of her shopping was to spend time with people in the stores and to gift what she purchased as a blessing. In my search for debt freedom, I have had to curb my shopping habits drastically and unlearn some generational patterns, but I still deeply miss her lavish generosity.
It is not as though my grandma had tons of money either, but she was always comfortable and preferred to spend her money and see her family enjoying it while she was alive. Even when cancer was tearing her body apart for the fourth and final time, she sat wrapped up in blankets on her old leather couch. She had a soft hat on to cover her hair loss and she smelled of fresh soap, warm skin, and small traces of her favorite Chanel perfume. She had her favorite jewelry and possessions around her and she was happily handing them out, so she could see her kids and grandchildren enjoying nice things. She handed me a beautiful heart-shaped diamond bracelet and I cried and hugged her because I really wanted “her.” I would rather have my Mammie than any of those things. But it gave her joy to give them away. She passed away a few weeks later surrounded by loved ones. In her generosity, she got to see the receiving of the gift and the enjoyment in her present.
I don’t have a neat bow to wrap up this writing with or some philosophical bit of wisdom about loss. All I know is that my grandmother was the most generous person I know. When I get disappointed in my expectations of other people or feel like no one really anticipates my needs, I realize that deep down I am really missing my “Mammie.” There is a pain there and an absence that no one will ever replace and with each loss, God reminds me this world is not my home and possessions are not the summation of a life. Perhaps instead it is the number of hearts we touch by giving. Giving our time, giving our money, giving attention, giving empathy, giving joy.
