The Mattie Mae Way ~

The Story of a Stubborn Southern Woman Who Stayed Home… ’Til She Went Home

There are some stories in a Southern family you just can’t make up — mostly because if you did, nobody would believe you. This is one of those stories.

Mittie was my great-aunt, and she was my Granny’s sister. Her given name was Mattie Mae, but that was a mouthful when I was little, so somehow Mittie is what she became… to everyone after that.

Mittie was the kind of woman who made up her mind, then made it a monument. After years of living alone in Alabama, she and Granny decided to move to Tifton to spend retirement together. They bought a few acres, settled into side-by-side living, and for a good long while, life was sweet. Granny and Mittie had me nearby to help when needed, and Mama came down from South Carolina to visit often. But most importantly, the sisters had each other — card games, coffee, and a back porch view of the bird feeders and their golden years.

Mattie Mae in her prime ~ confident, regal, Southern to the core. There’s a lot of sass under those soft curls… and the kind of look that says, “I said what I said.”

But time has a way of peeling things back.

Granny had COPD from a lifetime of smoking and more than one heart attack. Oddly enough, it was not from stress, nor nicotine, or even bacon daily for 40 plus years. According to her expert medical opinion, they were caused by wrapping Christmas presents every year. She swore it was the paper and tape. And after she finally came to that conclusion, she officially handed that job over to me. Oddly enough, she didn’t have another heart attack after that. I’m not saying she was right… but I’m not saying she was wrong, either.

Truth is, Granny might’ve handed over the scissors, but she never gave up the spark. One of those “heart attack Christmases,” Granddaddy bought her a rifle. We brought her gift straight into the hospital room, completely wrapped — bow and all. She unwrapped it right there in the bed, grinning like it was a brand-new bottle of Chanel No. 5. The doctor, sitting casually at the foot of her bed with his unfiltered Camel cigarette in hand, didn’t even blink. Just puffed his smoke and nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. Boy, things sure were different back then.

And Granny might have been the more sweet and docile one, but don’t let her fool ya ~ she had her own kind of fire. And she was fully armed.

Granny, fresh off a heart attack in her hospital gown, with her Christmas present ~ a rifle with a bow on it ~ just like it was just another Tuesday at the Phoebe Putney Hospital. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like a heart monitor and a .22.

Mittie, on the other hand, had a heart attack of her own and was later diagnosed with lymphoma. The two of them couldn’t really take care of each other anymore, and it became clear that something had to give. So Mama and I came up with a plan: Granny would move to South Carolina with her, and Mittie would come live with me and my family.

Granny, bless her heart, was fine with that and always up for a new adventure. Living at the beach was an exciting new chapter. But Mittie? Nope. Not having it. She looked at us all flat-eyed and said, “I don’t care what y’all do. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home, and I’m not leaving it.” We nodded like we were listening and moved forward with the plan anyway — like we’d learned to do for years whenever Mittie decided to wage war.

Mama had come down with a U-Haul for the weekend to pack Granny up. I had prepared a room in our home to make Mittie feel like she had her own space and could hold onto some of her independence. Our family gathered one last time for supper. Mittie sat there with a full pout and a plate she barely touched. She let her silence do the hollering.

Before we left that night, I hugged her and said, “I love you. I’ll see you in the morning and take you home with us. It’s gonna be a good life, Mittie. We’ll have a great time. You’ll see.” She simply said, “Nope.” I can’t prove it, but there’s a good chance she may have even shot me a bird. Anybody that knew her knew that was her favorite finger, and she was a master at using it.

Did I mention Mittie was a colorful character — as if you can’t already tell? She also liked to use the F-word on occasion — mostly in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot while trying to find a decent spot, or when she’d hang up on telemarketers — but when she said it, it didn’t sound vulgar. It just sounded colorful. She could sprinkle it into a sentence like salt — just enough to season it. Bless her heart.

Before she retired, she ran the show at an answering service office — always the manager, always “the boss.” She loved being with all those girls and telling them what to do. She was a great mama hen, advisor, tight whip. She had a coffee mug that said, “The Boss” on it. It sat right next to another mug that simply had “the bird” finger on it. (I told ya everyone knew it.) Her office girls had given them to her for Christmas over the years, and she displayed them proudly.

In her defense, she kinda grew into that grump of a woman, honestly. Life had begun to take her eyesight, which kept her from reading — her first love. Severe arthritis had stolen her ability to crochet — her second love. And finally, all of it kept her from gardening and doing yard work — which had been her stress reliever and, frankly, what kept her from physically hurting folks. So she was pretty miserable. I can’t say I wouldn’t be the same. A once-active woman who took care of herself, she didn’t like the hand life was now dealing her.

If you ever wondered what Southern grit looked like… here it is. Cold weather, old bones, still determined to plant those trees she probably cussed at later.

So we walked right past that loaded U-Haul and went home. A couple hours later, my phone rang. It was Mama. Her voice was soft.

“Tina… Mittie’s gone.”

I said, “Gone where?”

Honestly, my first thought was that she had stomped out into the yard just to prove a point.

“Mama, did you look for her?”

“No,” she said. “She’s gone. She passed away.”

Y’all… I stood there in total disbelief.

Now let me say this: Mittie may have been older, but she was sharp as a tack. She wasn’t forgetful — just a little bedbug crazy sometimes, and I say that with complete love and total respect. She made colorful look classy. She wasn’t the institutional kind of crazy, but I’m telling you — she was just like Ouiser Boudreaux in Steel Magnolias. Acted just like her, and strangely enough, looked an awful lot like her, too. She was hilarious and unpredictable, yet responsible and loyal to her family. She was a complex woman, and I loved her dearly.

And just like that… she was gone.

Doctors had told us her cancer probably wouldn’t be what did her in. That something else — some side effect or complication — would come first. But none of us expected that night to be the night.

Still, something in me knew she wouldn’t leave on anyone’s terms but her own.

I don’t believe for one minute that we have the power to will ourselves to die. But I do believe there might’ve been a conversation with God that night where she argued, pleaded, or maybe even cut a deal to go on Home. Not just because she couldn’t bear the thought of being dependent on anyone, but also because she wanted to be right — and needed us to know it — One. Last. Time.

And Father God knows when one of His children is just too hard-headed to be moved by earthly hands. He knew leaving her here would make her miserable — and she wasn’t the type to suffer quietly. We’d all have paid for it. I can see her now — arms folded in defiance, jaw set like a bulldog, laid up in that bed like she was daring the Lord to move her.

So that was her last stand ~ not with words, but with pure will. And when she said she wasn’t leaving her home, she meant it with every last breath.

She didn’t go with us.

She didn’t leave.

She stayed home…

’til she went Home.

And somehow… it felt exactly like the way she’d have written her own ending. It was the Mattie Mae way.

Until I see you again, Mittie — I love you, I miss you, I think of you often.

We keep your memory alive in every colorful story. Thank you for all of it.