Flash Memoir Returns
Mamaws and Papaws
We called both sets of our grandparents Mamaw and Papaw even though my maternal grandmother wanted to be called Granny. Because Dad was in the Air Force, we only saw my grandparents once a year when we took those long road trips to Texas. But memories of them surface almost daily, which is odd considering I lost my last grandparent when I was fifteen. But the visions of them come to me in flashes, so I thought they might be a good topic for Flash Memoir.
My paternal grandmother (Mamaw J.) kept an immaculate house. I’m not sure I ever saw a speck of dust on the furniture or the floor. When I think of that house, the first thing I remember is the pantry. Mamaw baked, almost every day. In my mind’s eye, that pantry held three or four long shelves on both walls and was always full of containers with cookies and candies and jars of fruit preserves. She kept most of her goodies in wax paper placed in coffee cans. And I was allowed to take turns peeking in the cans to find the treat that I wanted. It rarely took more than one or two cans before I found something that I could happily shove in my mouth. I think she is the reason I love to bake.
I have very few strong memories of my Papaw J. He was a quiet man who smoked a pipe, loved Jack Benny, rarely spoke to us kids, and had a sweet tooth. To be honest, I only remember hearing him speak once. We had eaten a massive lunch (what they called dinner), and as he left the room, he asked if there would be pie. For some reason, the other adults just laughed. I gathered from adult gossip later that he was not allowed many sweets because of his health. My hope now is that he stole into the pantry often.
One summer in the early seventies, my maternal grandmother (Mamaw B.) and her daughter, my Aunt Betty (Joy Elizabeth), came to visit us. They drove from Texas to Nebraska in Aunt Betty’s little green sports car. I loved my Aunt Betty so much because she was funny, always telling stories and laughing about something. She had a specialty license plate for that little green car - “JEllo.” Mamaw told us she thought they’d made pretty good time on the trip, and they had driven about sixty miles an hour all the way. Behind Mamaw’s back, Aunt Betty held up eight fingers to my parents, for eighty miles an hour, and then added the other five fingers for good measure.
Bedridden with severe rheumatoid arthritis, my Papaw B. never greeted us when we went to visit. We were taken into his room to say hello. I can picture his pale, bony face with carefully combed thin red hair resting on the white pillows. I’m not sure he remembered my name. When he died, I remembered talking about it with my little brother - we were probably eleven and nine at the time. Neither of us cried about losing this Papaw, but we felt like we should have tried to for Mom’s sake.
It’s a different world now. People don’t sit around and swap the old stories like they used to, but sharing stories about the people we love and lost is how we keep them with us. Even if they are tiny little memories like these. With luck, I’ve planted a few of these memories for my kids and grands.
Happy Sunday,
Mimi
Love that first photo!
Thank you so much for the photos and memories of your grandparents. I never met my father's parents, they lived in Norway. My maternal grandmother died when I was very young, so that only left my Grandpa H. He only visited occasionally, as he lived with my aunt in another province. I think he found it kind of boring to be shuttled around between his children and I remember him sitting in an easy chair on our front porch reading a book.
My mother's friend from Chicago was not a relative, but she made a much bigger impression on me because she was so glamorous. She always wore earrings and tiny little slipper shoes. Her husband thought she was a goddess. When he would compliment her, she would just pat her snowy white hair, and say (all Mae West-style), "Oh, honey, that's so sweet of you!"