My mother’s maternal grandmother passed away when I was almost three. She was great. Her name was Minnie Belle and it really didn’t fit her because wasn’t a dainty little thing like my grandmother, Patsy. I didn’t get to know her, but I remember what her house smelled like and her chickens at her farm. I have her Hoosier cabinet from the farm by the stairs in my living room.
My great-grandmother that I grew up with was Katie Ruth, whom we called Mammaw Lewis. She was very no-nonsense, went to church whenever the doors were open, enjoyed having us around, but she was old when I was young. She sent us maybe two dollars for our birthdays and five dollars in one of those printed boxes with a kitten and ribbon printed on it for Christmas. I love her and she cracked me up. Even when I was 16 or 17 sh’d call me into her bedroom in my grandparents house and ask me to count the change in her change purse, then would tell me to keep a quarter for myself.
When I was a teenager I’d go spend the night at my grandparents’ every once in awhile on off weeks when Mammaw Lewis was staying with my Aunt Joyce and Uncle Dutch. I slept in her room and would try hard to sleep under this clock of Jesus.
And now you know where my sense of humor was born.
No, Mammaw Lewis would not appreciate this. At all.
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