Born in Sylva, North Carolina on May 8, 1915. She was crass and kind, steel and silk, tender and tart. She would soothe your fears and whip you into shape with the lash of her trusty tongue as fast as you could blink. She stood a mere 5'3, just like me, her first born granddaugther. Though nothing to brag about, we are the tallest females in the bunch. I have her hands, her feet, her sweet tooth, her love of the mountains and few other features that will remain unnamed. Though born a beach bum, I love to make a run for the mountains every chance I get. I think she is the reason why. We loved to watch the sunset from her opened bedroom window as we listened to her old iron bladed box fan and felt the night breeze as it gave our skin a slight chill. There was nothing better in this world than waking to the smell of her egg gravy (egg gravy= a mountain woman's trick for making a meal go farther especially during The Great Depression).
I've always associated myself with being more like my daddy. It is true that Dad and I have similar strengths and similar struggles. We both have big hearts; and we both have a hard time saying "no". Yet, every once in awhile I'll see my bullheaded grandma rise up in me. I'll see that she deposited a bit of herself into my soul too. I've been told I'm a doctor's nightmare, because I don't listen, although I do make an attempt.
My grandma was such a big part of our lives. As a little girl I remember praying for God to never take my grandmother before me. I thought I would die without her. She was our Nanny, our friend, our prayer warrior and the tanner of our hides when we needed it. She was the epitome of a mountain woman. No frills, no makeup, no fancy clothes; but that woman would work her hands to the bone and give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.
As this sometimes bullheaded product of my grandma was driving today (yes...not really supposed to be yet as my foot is still healing...but I can't stand to be told "no" or feel pinned in...), I found myself in front of her house. I'm not really sure how I made the wrong turn and ended up there, but it was a pleasant serendipity. I recalled her and an instance when she nursed me. It was one of the sweetest memories I have of her. I had spent the day working at a summer camp. I was eight months pregnant and we were outside at the pool, and I was in the sun all day (yes...bullheaded...that I am). It was hot. I was huge. I was miserable, and my ivory legs were blistered almost instantly. I remember that it was on a Wednesday, and I had to go to church that night looking like a lobster. I went into her house right after work, as was my routine. She saw me. She didn't fuss. She just said, "Lisa, you go straight in that bedroom and lie down. I'll be there shortly." Bless! She always knew just how to fix anything from broken toys to broken people. She bathed my legs in aloe and time and again dipped her wash cloth into ice cold water that she gently applied to my legs so as to absorb the heat. She worked relentlessly. It felt wonderful. She pulled the heat from legs. Though I was still red the next day, the pain was very minimal. It's fastest I've ever healed from a sunburn.
As I sat in front of what used to be her door, I knew that if I could have walked to that door and knocked on it, today and if I could have had her open it...she would have spoken only a few words and got right to nursing her stubborn granddaughter's foot. She wouldn't have fussed at me for being a headstrong, She would have known that I inherited that bit of a rebel streak from her. Oh the tales that I heard: the times she rode shot gun on the back of a motorcycle in the sleet down the mountains, the times she had to show that she could out hammer or out chop a man, the way she refused to let breast cancer beat her even though she was a young woman and medicine hadn't advanced as much as it has now, etc., etc., etc.
If she were alive, she'd be 100 years old this Friday May 8 the day before Carter's 3rd birthday and eleven days before what would have been my dad's birthday. She was such a fighter and lived to be to 90 years old. She was healthy and alert up until her last few months. She was an amazing woman, and I miss her! She would have loved Carter! She would have loved Mari! They would have loved her!
Reflecting on her the past few days and the things she overcame has gotten me to thinking about scars and life. I have had several surgeries, like my grandma and mama, but unlike them, vanity causes me to hate the scars that are left. I have tried to apply creams to lighten them or camouflage them as best I can. Today, though I saw this quote and it gave me a new appreciation for scars, "Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever it was that tried to hurt you" Unknown Author.
Forty two years into this one shot deal called life, ten years without my grandma and almost one year without my dad, have me thankful for the first time for scars and thankful for bullheaded women! I miss you grandma with all my soul! Happy almost 100th! I have no doubt you'll be celebrating with my daddy!
Love you, your Ladybug!
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