As Told by My Grandmother

The other day a stranger complimented me on my hands and told me they were very pretty. It made me look at my them in greater detail later on that night. I thought of a time when I was sitting with my grandmother at her little round kitchen table -- where all the family congregates at any time of day or night -- looking at old pictures. She was handing me an old sepia photograph of her when she was in her early twenties; she was absolutely beautiful. My grandmother studied the picture as if looking at it for the first time as well, then she remarked at how much we favored each other. As I took the photo from her to see for myself, our hands touched, and for the first time we both realized that we had the same hands; hers were just older and more worn (as I'm sure mine will be). She was looking at her past and I my future. We both looked at each other and laughed so hard we cried. That was five years ago, but boy does it feel so recent.

This memory compelled me to look through some of my old things and I came across some short stories my grandmother wrote. My dad copied them for me after she passed away last year. It was her birthday last week, so I felt it only right to bring her back to the forefront of my and my family's minds to recount a story written in her hand, so much like mine, about her own grandmother. And to think we both shared a passion for writing, too!


"As Told by My Grandmother..." by Maurine Davis

My grandmother lived on a farm in Woodlawn, Tennesse. Her name was Addie Estella Morrow. She was about four feet and eight inches tall. A little dumpy lady with white hair that she wore in a bun. She was the mother of nine children. But only four were living by the time I came along.

She always had stories to tell us about the time she and my grandfather bought a three hundred acre farm from a German friend of theirs who didn't like his fellow neighbors and they didn't like him. So he sold his farm to a black man, my grandfather. He was the only black man in the area who owned such a property.

So one night the Klu Klux Klan Night Riders came riding up on their horses all dressed in their white hooded robes and asked him to come outside. He didn't respond at first however, but after many entreaties he opened the door wide and let his double-barreled shotgun respond to their request.

After that, the only sound heard was the resounding of horses hooves galloping away.


I guess spunk runs in the family too!!!