I didn’t grow up with grandparents close by. They’d either died before I could remember or they lived in states it would take a 20 hour car trip or a plane to get to.
5 years ago, I married Jared and that changed. He grew up in the same town as his grandparents and had a bond with them I’d only imagined was possible. I was shocked that their house could hold so much love and not burst.
Whether it was holidays, birthdays, football season (go Vols!), or just because, his family would gather at Nanny and Papa’s house. She would have cooked up something delicious and was in the kitchen with Momma or Aunt Dana or Aunt Carrie with her grandkids and great grandkids never far away chatting, or watching TV, or listening to Papa tell stories. It was so surprising to me that even with so many people, there was not the hustle and bustle or chaos I’d grown to experience with a houseful of people. The house felt filled to the brim, but also like there was even more love to go around.
There was calm and ease.
People coming and going, napping, watching the slideshow on the computer.
Papa would come into the kitchen to tease Nanny or to put his cold hands on her neck (tendencies that have been passed down to my husband) and Nanny would laugh and tease right back.
Nanny was the sun, and anyone who walked through her door was pulled in and stabilized by the gravity of her warmth and kindness.
For 5 years, I had the precious privilege of having a close-by grandmother. She was one of the kindest, most thoughtful, most gracious, most caring people I will ever know. She filled her home with the most beautiful light and love, and I am honored to have basked in it. Even though it was only 5 years, I’m proud to have been Nanny’s family.
The Sunday before she passed away, we went to Nanny’s for lunch. She’d cooked up a pot of her signature chicken and dumplings and a side of the pintoes that were a staple at Sunday lunches. Cornbread and sliced tomatoes and cucumbers were on the table like always. And like always, Nanny was radiating her signature warmth. Before we left that day, she told us how she’d cleaned all the blinds, and how pleased she was with them, and how she’d clean them again in a few years. She asked about our new cat, and told me how pretty the blue paint was going to look in my kitchen — how their dining room used to be a similar color.
It’s still so impossible and surreal to process that it would be the last time we’d see her.
She was a quiet power that impacted generations and will impact generations to come through all the people that she loved so well. I’m so glad to have known her and loved her, even for such a short time, and that I have the great blessing of sharing in and carrying on her beautiful memory and legacy.
Oatkake 