My Southern Grandma

Please make sure you’re watering that ficus! It’s personal to me!  That ficus plant was waiting for my grieving family at my grandmother’s funeral way back in 2003.  I had donated it 13 years later to my place of employment when it outgrew our new home, and we needed to make room for a new tiny human that was on the way.  I remember the call that my grandmother had developed pneumonia after breaking her hip.  I thought that she was doing better, so I was shocked by the “it’s the end” phone call.  With determination, I threw my clothes in a bag and drove the seven hours home from Waco where I was attending graduate school.  I missed a final exam, but I needed to see my family and say goodbye one last time to Momma Ray.

            If you want a good southern grandma name, just take a one-syllable name and stick momma on the front.  You can’t say Momma Ray without dragging out that last syllable.  I can think of several other memories of my grandmother that are truly southern.  She was firm in her faith and went to church every time the doors were open, as they say.  She made the best corn pudding, and I could pick it out at the church potlucks among all the other golden crusted-top casseroles. 

            Her backyard was shady and smelled of all the pecans that littered her cracked sidewalk and crunchy lawn.  We loved to climb the sturdy magnolia tree in the front yard or swing on the screened-in porch on lazy summer Saturdays.  My momma and I would pick up a frito chili pie, head over to my grandmother’s house, and interrupt her soap opera binge to have a visit.  She painted my fingernails bright berry red when I was young, and when she was in the nursing home years later, I would return the favor.

            She wasn’t a woman of many words, but I could feel her support by her presence.  When I practiced the piano, she would sit quietly and listen.  She came to rowdy Christmas mornings and grueling graduations.  She made sure the family came together for birthdays and Easters.  Her eyes lit up when I spoke of my faith, no doubt influenced by her display of dedication.

            While she didn’t get to see me walk down the aisle or meet my son, I have her smiling wedding picture framed on my dresser.  When I think of pecans or corn pudding, I smile.  Even at work, I can see a green living monument of my grandmother in the ficus plant.  So if you had a loving grandparent who you were blessed enough to know and remember, let the memory live on.  And you should share that memory with others—and don’t forget to give it what it needs to stay green and live on.