My Granmama was one of my favorite people in this world. She was lively, adventurous, and wild. She told outlandish tales. She taught her grandchildren the art of storytelling, and she was enrapturing. She was a bright light in my corner, and I never doubted her love for me. She wasn’t perfect, full of chaos, and for Granmama, “Normal” was the greatest insult. Those were some of her most wonderful defining characteristics. Granmama encouraged me to be myself, to let myself feel, to love and cherish my soul. She spoke of the “inner beloved.” Our souls are more important than our bodies. This is the truth we must hold fast, remembering who we are inside.
Granmama didn’t solely voice her feelings of love; her actions spoke louder than her words. She taught me to appreciate nature and practice environmental consciousness. She loved the earth, and taught me the importance of recycling. Sometimes, when I visited her home in Black Mountain, NC I waded in the pond collecting scattered debris. Granmama lived in a house near a small park where we would play, run, and feed ducks. I spent precious moments with my cousins on the bridge playing “Pooh Sticks.” In case that is an activity in which you have not partaken, the rules are simple: Each person chooses a twig and tosses it into the flowing creek on one side of the bridge. All competitors rush to the other side of the bridge, and the twig that takes the lead on its course under the bridge and passes all others wins the round. It may sound silly, because it is. Knowledge of an upcoming visit with Granmama filled me with anticipation. There are many events which trigger anticipation: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Birthdays, etc. Plans to see my Granmama flooded my senses with excitement.
When I was a small child staying overnight with my family at my Granmama’s house, I would wake up before everyone else, on a mission. There was an extremely creaky, swirling blue staircase leading from our downstairs accommodations to my Granmama’s bedroom upstairs. One foot after another, excruciatingly slow, avoiding the groans escaping the old wooden stairs, I emerged victoriously on the top floor. I quietly padded over to my Granmama’s bed. I think she pretended to sleep as I lifted the blankets and crawled in beside her. Now, I know she was expecting me, anticipating my arrival. Then, I thought I was sneaky.
I feel the same anticipation when my husband takes our dog, Logan, outside before bed. In the meantime, I hustle around preparing for bed, expecting him. Without fail, I hear tiny toenails clicking against the hardwood floors as Logan sprints to hop in bed with me every night. It reminds me of my early morning visits with Granmama. I think about her every time.
–SJB