My brilliant sister Inkmom wrote a post last week about lines. Not frown lines, or brow lines, or waiting in long lines at the grocery store, but the lines that connect us to our ancestors. Lineage is a powerful thing. And her post is lovely. You should go and read it.
As I spend my days mothering, I often think of the women that mothered before me. If you know my own Mother, you know how remarkable she is. She is one of the biggest reasons that I am a happy Mom. I saw her do it, and saw her loving it. When I was little I wanted to be just like her. And then I grew up and realized how crazy she is...
(I'm kidding, Mom. :) I love you dearly and still hope to be just like you.)
Before my Mom, my grandmothers loved and nurtured their children. Though they both passed away before I reached adulthood, they taught me a great deal about mothering as well. My memories of them are firmly woven into the fabric of who and what I am. I cherish their example and hold dear the sweet moments that I shared with them throughout my childhood.
Stella Catherine was my father's mother. She had thirteen children, all raised to adulthood, my father fitting somewhere in the middle. She raised her family on a tobacco farm in central North Carolina and worked and prayed and loved her way through life.
I remember going to grandma's house to visit. Several times a year we filled our overnight bags and piled into the car and made the trip, anxious to see aunts, uncles and cousins, and soak in the sights and sounds of the farm. And the smells. I'm not sure anything ever smelled better than Grandma's kitchen. Grandma had an electric stove, but she didn't use it. Instead, she used it to store her pots and pans and she cooked on the wood stove in the corner. Sunday morning after we arrived, we would wake up to the sound and smells of Grandma cooking in the kitchen. Eggs, bacon, fried apples and homemade biscuits and gravy filled the round table in the center, a feast fit for a king, or a passel of hungry grandchildren. We gathered around the table, sitting in wooden chairs with woven straw seats and drank in the love and warmth that filled her kitchen. While we ate, we would listen to Grandma sing along to the radio, Amazing Grace, Keep on the Sunny Side, and other southern gospel classics. I was only ten years old when she died, too young to remember specific conversations or moments we might have shared. But I will never forget the way it felt to sit in her kitchen.
Grandma Stella loved to sing. She would sing, and my grandfather would play along on his guitar or autoharp. He could play anything really, and they frequently shared their music with others. Here... have a listen:
Get Your Own Free Hypster.com Playlist.
This is Grandma Clare:
My maternal Grandmother, and the feistiest, loveliest woman on the planet. Barely reaching 5'2 on a good day, she made up for her diminutive size with her sharp wit and sparkling personality. Trust me. You could not know her without loving her. The best thing about Grandma Clare is that she lived right next door. Every afternoon after school, I remember racing to her house to get a Popsicle, or a glass of Pepsi. She always had Pepsi hidden behind the laundry room door. Grandma's love was unconditional. When I broke one of my mother's porcelain bluebirds, it was to her arms that I ran, where she wiped away my tears and convinced me my mother loved me much more than she loved porcelain.
What makes her most remarkable in my eyes is that she raised my Mom, giving her the tools and knowledge that she would need to become a mother herself, and a good one, at that.As I raise my own daughter, I think of these women, my heritage, and feel their strength. I am humbled by their example and pray that I may give my daughter even a fraction of what they have given me. And I realize that no matter how much the world changes, the basics of mothering, the desire to fill bellies with goodness, minds with knowledge, and hearts with love, always stay the same. My grandmothers did it, my mother did it, and now,
I'm doing it.
