Granny Glenn: The Pearl and Backbone of the Glenn Women
I never met Granny Glenn. She died the year I was born — just months apart… her going out, me coming in. Everything I know about her comes from my mama’s memory, and from the stories passed down like china plates — fragile, treasured, and held carefully so they’d endure.
To everyone in the family now, she is simply Granny Glenn. She is where this body of women begins — the backbone that holds the line steady. Three generations now have carried her name forward.
To Mama, though, she was just Granny. But as the family grew and generations piled on, we needed names to tell all the “grannies” apart. That’s when she became Granny Glenn — and that’s how I’ll refer to her throughout this book. Not just a grandmother, but the matriarch whose life still presses against our ribcages today.
Granny Glenn was the kind of woman who woke up every morning and stepped straight into her place in this world. She’d slip on a dress—because that’s all she ever wore—then fasten her pearls, both the necklace and the earrings, because pearls, to her, were just part of being dressed. Pearls weren’t vanity for her; they were dignity. In a time where the South could be hard on women, they were her way of saying, ‘I still know who I am.’
An apron went over the dress, and in the waistband, she’d tuck a lace-trimmed embroidered hanky. That was her uniform, whether she was bound for the kitchen or the coast. Picture it: Panama City Beach, sometime in the ’60s. While everybody else was in swim trunks and modest suits, here came Granny Glenn—short heels sinking in the sand, a proper dress swishing in the breeze, and a sweater to shade her fair skin from the scorching Florida sunshine. And if I had to bet, her little purse was hanging right there on her arm, too.
Whether it was the beach or the bedroom, Granny Glenn had a way of making sure things were done properly. In Panama City, that meant pearls and heels. In her home, it meant beds that looked finished, final, and not to be disturbed. Oh, did Granny Glenn have strong feelings about beds... and she passed those feelings right along to my Granny, too. Once one was made, it was as sacred as the Lord’s table. No sitting, no flopping, no ‘just for a second.’ Her beds were mostly feather beds, plump and perfect in the morning light. So if you sat on it, you’d leave a dent, and Granny Glenn wasn’t having none of that. She missed her calling as a soldier with her morning ritual of a perfectly made bed. Sometimes I wonder if she lined her shoes up underneath, too. But maybe that was her way of bringing order to a world that had already taken so much from her. A bed tight enough to bounce a coin off was her silent way of saying: life may be messy, but this bed sure won’t be.
If a storm rolled in at night, she’d shuffle through the house in her nightclothes, sounding the alarm for everyone to get up. And you didn’t dare just stumble into her room as you were. Everyone had to get fully dressed — same as she always did — in case you had to make a run for it. Where you’d run to, I haven’t a clue. But she wasn’t taking chances. Once you were gathered, you sat together and looked at each other until the worst of it passed. She didn’t trust thunder, lightning, or wind to leave a soul unharmed unless she could see the whites of your eyes. I think that came from loss too. She had learned early how quickly people could be stolen. Watching your face in the storm was her way of keeping you tethered.
Maybe that’s why weather rattled me so deeply when I was younger. The first hint of thunder had me up, dressing my boys, pulling them to the couch to wait it out with me. If the wind picked up, we’d squeeze into a closet or the bathtub, sometimes with one of their twin mattresses pulled over us for protection in case a tornado came through. I never knew exactly why storms terrified me — but fear has a way of trickling down just like eye color or the way we all ended up short-waisted. I’ve settled down since then and can even enjoy a good thunderstorm now, but I think I passed the baton of worry to my mama. She can’t make it five minutes into a phone call without mentioning the weather.
Mama always talked about how Granny Glenn was affectionate, quick to hug you, soft in the way a grandmother ought to be — but she also believed that bad behavior ought to cost you something. If you misbehaved, she’d send you to get your own switch and stripe your ankles good. And then she’d pull you in close and tell you she loved you. Love, in her mind, never canceled discipline, and discipline never canceled love. She didn’t see tenderness and toughness as opposites. To her, love meant keeping you safe from your own foolishness, even if it stung. I’m guessing Granny Glenn took the scripture about sparing the rod and spoiling the child very seriously — if you love your child, you correct them. To her, that wasn’t cruelty. That was care.
When I asked Mama about spending time in her Granny’s house like I often did mine, she said she never remembers Granny Glenn having a house of her own. Although I’m sure she did at some point in her life, by the time her daughters were grown, she was deeply immersed into each of their homes and the lives of their families. Those three girls — Louise (my Granny), Mittie, and Evelyn — all took her in their own way, never letting her drift too far. She lived with each of them in turns: with Evelyn, who had a passel of children, she helped with the babies; later, as her health declined, she spent more time with Mittie and my Granny Louise. She was blessed to have three daughters who adored her, each of them making room for her in their lives.
And I’ll tell you this — for years I thought folks were saying “hassle of children” instead of “passel of children.” And truth be told, that’s not too far off. I ought to know — I was the hassle.
Before I ever saw a photograph of Granny Glenn, I had already carved her image in my mind. Mama’s stories gave me the details: soft hair, glasses, pearls, an apron tied at the waist, and a quiet dignity in the way she carried herself. When I finally did see her picture, it only confirmed what I already knew — the stories had drawn her true. More than a likeness, they gave me the feeling of having known her, even in her absence.
One of my favorite stories I’ve heard over and over through the years is the “cowboy and Indian story.” Behind Granny Louise’s house, where Granny Glenn often stayed, Shetland ponies grazed like restless children out back. Granddaddy always kept them for Mama and her brother Bruce —though in truth, they were more mischief-makers than livestock. Those ponies became the perfect props for Mama and Bruce’s favorite pastime: playing Cowboys and Indians.
Their first love was books — Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys stacked on the bedside table, read and re-read until the spines were pulling apart at the seams and the pages had worn as thin as tissue paper. Their second love was the Saturday noon picture show, where they’d sit in anticipation as cowboys and Indians played out their stories on the big screen. By the time the credits rolled, Mama had already picked her role — she was always the Indian, and Bruce, without fail, was the cowboy.
One afternoon, Mama decided the cowboy needed to meet his fate. She tied Bruce to an old pine tree in the backyard, pulling the rope as tight as her hands could manage so he couldn’t get away. Then — with all the seriousness of a seven-year-old little chief on the warpath — she gathered sticks and pine straw, building a ring of fire all the way around that tree, fully intent on burning Bruce at the stake, just like they’d seen play out a million times at the picture show.
From the kitchen window, Granny Glenn caught sight of smoke curling up from the backyard. She came running, apron flying, pearls bouncing, short heels digging into the dirt. By the time she got there, Bruce was wide-eyed, Mama was fanning the flames higher, stomping around the tree in a dramatic scene straight from the Spaghetti Westerns, and the ponies were snorting like even they knew this had gone too far. To Mama, it was just another story acted out. To Bruce, it was looking like the final chapter. And to Granny Glenn, this was a scene where there wasn’t a switch in the yard strong enough to beat the devil out of that foolishness.
But she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the garden hose, doused the fire, and untied Bruce, rescuing him from a fiery fate. Then, without missing a beat, she turned that hose onto Mama, whipping her just enough to make the lesson stick. Mama remembers being mad — not because her Granny laid that old green garden hose against those tender little thighs of hers, but because, as she put it, “he hadn’t got kilt yet.” And she meant it, too. She didn’t fully understand the extent of her actions because in her mind, it was just play-acting. Cowboys always came back the next week. And thanks to Granny Glenn, that little cowboy got to ride off into the sunset once again… or, more realistically, straight to the kitchen for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then a nap. Near-death experiences are hard and hungry work.
That wasn’t the first time Granny Glenn had to rescue Bruce, either. When Mama was about five, she had a little rocking chair she adored. She’d lay her little chest and arms across the seat, rocking herself to sleep in it, preferring that hard rocker over the softest bed, as if it was a big ole wooden pacifier of peace. One afternoon, Bruce — about four years old and full of mischief — climbed up in that chair and peed all in it. When Mama walked in and saw what he’d done, she snatched up the broom and went after him, ready to beat him half to death. Granny Glenn stepped in just in time, saving Bruce once again from what would become a long career of near misses at Mama’s hands.
It’s easy to laugh at those childhood stories now — Bruce barely surviving Mama’s wrath, Granny Glenn flying in like the cavalry coming over the hill. But the truth is, she had already faced storms far heavier than children with too much imagination. Her husband died at just 44 years old, right when life should’ve been in full bloom. In that moment, Granny Glenn lost her partner, and her girls lost their daddy. From then on, she shouldered the weight of raising three daughters alone. She traded her pearls for work boots and her apron for a time card, taking a job at the local sewing factory where she stayed until retirement. She held her life together the only way she knew how — through long hours and sheer determination. Her hands never stopped moving — stitching seams, mending tears, holding a family together one hem at a time. I’m quite sure she passed a lot of that down to my mama… busy hands and a hard work ethic, always doing what had to be done.
Sometimes I think about what that really meant for her. Today, if I need work, I can make a few calls or send a couple emails and find a way to make some extra dollars. But stepping back into her world? A widow in the early 1900s with three mouths to feed, no safety nets, no shortcuts. Just determination, backbone, and a Singer sewing machine. She must have been exhausted, yet every morning she still got up, fixed her hair, and fastened her pearls like armor. I don’t even know where my pearls are half the time—and they’d be the last thing on my mind if I had her kind of weight on my shoulders.
After three decades of work in the factory, everything changed in 1970. Until then, Granny Glenn had been the backbone — sustaining herself, raising her girls, and even helping raise the next generation. Her uniform of dignity — the dress, the heels, the neatness — had once been her armor, but after that fall, it became a reminder of a life she couldn’t step back into. A broken hip back then wasn’t what it is today. Now, you go in for surgery, get a pin, and within weeks you’re walking again. In her day, a hip break was nearly a death sentence, and for Granny Glenn, it proved just that. The surgery itself left its own scars. Whether it was the anesthesia or simply the limits of medicine in those days, her sharp, sweet mind was altered in ways that startled everyone. Mama said that as much of a lady as she was, after that surgery she started using words nobody had ever heard from her before. It was as if her gentle mind had shifted, and the family found themselves watching a woman they knew by heart turn into a stranger.
The way it all happened was pure Granny Glenn. Mama always said she broke it in a way only she could have. She was already in her stockings and heels, trying to step into her dress, when she got tangled up and fell — catching the bathtub on the way down. I’ve carried that story — and that warning — for years. And I understand it more than I’d like to admit. I’m a shoe girl myself, always picking out my shoes first and building the outfit around them. Maybe that little quirk trickled down from her. But for Granny Glenn, that choice cost everything. What started as just getting dressed became the fall that changed her life — and ours — forever. After that, nothing was the same. She never walked again, was fully bedridden, and the family who had once leaned on her had to learn how to hold her up instead. Life changed just that quickly.
In her final years, Granny Glenn stayed more with Mittie than the other daughters, and my Mama helped care for her. Granddaddy even bought Mama a little green convertible Mustang — part ride, part reward — because while her friends were off at the movies or out on dates, she was spending her teenage nights tending to her Granny.
And before she was too far gone, Mama would lift her frail little body into that green Mustang, tie a scarf around her hair, and drive her through town. Mama said she smiled the whole way. My Granny never thought she’d see her Mama enjoy that, since she’d always been so particular about her hair being just right. But by then, all that was gone. And in those rides, for a little while, the weight of broken bones and a broken mind lifted. She didn’t have to carry anything — she just let herself be carried.
She passed the year I was born, so I never got the pleasure of knowing her. Still, I can see her in the stories: pearls fastened at her neck, an apron tied at her waist, her hand close to a switch, her arms around a grandchild, riding in that Mustang with the wind in her scarf, and walking the hall clearing her throat in the morning to say without words that it was time to get up.
Mama says she was a sport — willing to laugh, willing to play along, but never willing to let go of her standards. She was prim and proper in a way that stayed with her, even when age tried to strip it away. That’s what lingers with me: how a woman could be both gentle and unyielding at the same time. She could stripe your ankles with a switch and then pull you close. She could pull you out of a storm-tossed bed just to see your face, because her love demanded it. Soft, but steel — the kind that bends with the years but never breaks.
And though we never met, I still feel what she left behind. Sometimes I wonder what I might have learned sitting at her knee, what stories she would have told. But her strength settled in the soil of our family, steady as the roots of an old oak. She was the backbone. And though she’s long gone, two women still carry her strength, and three branches still carry her blood.
She slipped out of this world just as I slipped in — the ultimate Southern tag team. We were only months apart... her going, my coming — the rhythm of one life ending and another beginning. It feels like she passed me the baton — apron strings and pearls in her grip — and I’ve been carrying them ever since.