Growing up my sister and I were fortunate to have two grandmothers who showered us with love.
Memommie, my Dad's mom, lived in a small eastern North Carolina town her whole life. Our trips to see her often coincided with visits from cousins, and the old house came alive with tall tales and corny jokes from beloved uncles, the storm door swinging as we explored the house, yard, and great big world beyond. It was the house my dad grew up in, little changed, and full of his stories.
We climbed the longleaf pine trees in the backyard, named one "Mayflower", and tied ribbons around her branches.
There was a low wall by the garden where we practiced our balance, daffodils popping up from the sandy soil in spring, and oftentimes kittens to feed and play with.
After fall visits we came home with grocery sacks full of pecans. As I got older I became the official tree shaker, which meant climbing high in the branches to shake the nuts down.
Most visits we would walk downtown to the "dime store" and I would return to the house with a new toy car or a balsa wood airplane or a few plastic "army men".
Sometimes we would make the trek to Magnolia Lake, which in my eyes was about like a trip to the Amazon, but was really just a big pond a couple miles down the road.
The upstairs of the old house was a bit mysterious, and we would have to dodge monstrous Eastern NC wasps in the summer. But up the steps we went, which were too short and awkward to climb. There we found an old trunk, and the cut off ends of fabric rolls, who knows whence they came, but they were good for tying up bundles of newspaper and made nice ribbons for pine trees.
As with most family gatherings, food was an integral part, but at that time and place much of it came from the garden not the grocery. Pecan pie, biscuits with pear preserves, butter beans and field peas graced the table, along with fried chicken and sweet iced tea (those last two items being required by town ordinance).
Memommie, like many in her time, was a quilter, not out of a desire to create works of great beauty but to make something that would keep you warm at night. I think she made one for each of her grandchildren, and while mine would not have won a ribbon at the County Fair, it was made for me and I loved it.
She dealt with her share of tragedy. One of her sons had a mental disability at a time when services and understanding were thin. She lost another in the Great War, and her husband died just a couple years after my birth, much too soon. I know too little about her life growing up and raising a family during a time of great hardship for our nation, but even if her only gifts to the world were utilitarian quilts, home cooked meals, and love for her grandchildren, it was a life well lived, and her passing about three decades ago hit me harder than I could have guessed.
"Grandmother" was what we called my mom's mom and, in spite of the more formal title, loved us just as dearly. My granddad died just a year or two before my birth, and Mom has always lamented that we never met, certain we would have loved each other immensely.
After being widowed, Grandmother moved to a duplex in Durham and rose to the challenge of handling household finances for the first time in her life. The apartment was tiny, but the memories of our visits take up a big space in my mind. It's funny what you remember about a place; a box of toys, a wooden step stool in the kitchen, the "rocket" slide in the park down the road. And of course the cuckoo clock. Rumor has it it was passed down to one of my dear cousins, and I envision it hanging in their kitchen or hallway, waiting to intrigue their own grandchildren when they come to visit.
Like my Dad's family, we had a small but loving assortment of Aunts, Uncles and Cousins. Though we all lived some distance apart, regular visits were an integral part of my childhood and youth and I have rich memories of trips with them, to the beach or Tweetsie Railroad or the Air and Space Museum.
Grandmother was a passionate and talented crafter, making afghans, scarves, ceramics and pretty Christmas tree ornaments from lace or beads. Her ornaments still find a prominent spot on our tree, and no doubt hang from my sister's and cousins' as well.
Her husband worked for the Weather Service, and they moved him around several times. I still don't have straight all the places my Mom lived growing up. But they have some roots in Warrenton, a quaint town where through sheer chance I now work, funny how life comes full circle. They are both buried there in a beautiful small town cemetery, full of moss, oaks and faded tomb stones.
In spite of Granddad's (is that what I would have called him?) professional career, money was scarce for their family. Yet they managed to feed three kids and instill in them the value of education and hard work, all went on to have successful careers and loving families of their own.
My grandmothers were far from perfect, each with their own idiosyncrasies and failings. Thankfully, as children we seem to see past those things quite easily and are rewarded in abundance with a deep and abiding love. What a difference it made in my life.
It was not much different from the other fifteen or so trips we've taken since buying our little travel trailer a year and a half ago. Long hikes, good food, nice views, time to relax. Same routine, different park. Camping takes us far away from the day-to-day stresses of our jobs, but also from the pull of endless chores that would nag us on even the most relaxing weekend at home.
