The Heart of Our Bloodline ~ granny

If the body of our bloodline has a heart, it was my Granny Louise. And the irony isn’t lost on me that the one who was the heart of the family is the very one whose own heart gave her the most trouble. Three heart attacks, a bypass surgery, nitroglycerin tablets on the night stand — the doctors told her holding everything in would kill her. But she kept on carrying it, because that’s what her heart did: it beat for the rest of us. She used to say if she didn’t have something to worry about, that would worry her. Granny was a worrywart through and through.

She was the smallest of the Glenn women, but she had the biggest heart. My Granny, Helen “Louise” Glenn Dunkelberger, stood just five feet tall, but her spirit reached farther than most folks twice her size. It didn’t spill out in flowery words or fussing over you — Granny’s love showed up more quiet than that. It was in the way she kept the coffee pot full, the way supper was always on the table, the way her presence settled a room right down without having to say a word.

But make no mistake, silence didn’t mean softness. When she had something to say, she came out swinging — sometimes with just a look, sometimes with that backwards-pointing finger that could stop you cold. Granny carried her heart quietly, until she didn’t. And that’s when you knew to pay attention.

Granny was born May 1, 1931, down in Cotton, Georgia, the baby of the Glenn girls — Evelyn first, Mittie in the middle, then Louise. Being the youngest gave her a sweetness, but don’t let that fool you. My Granddaddy called her a “pistol ball,” and he wasn’t wrong. She was quick, sharp, and tougher than those short little legs looked. She could walk circles around just about anybody. And being the baby taught her something else — how to be creative, how to keep her place among strong personalities, how to slip in and claim her seat at the table.

Her heart broke early, and more than once. The first time was when she lost her sweet daddy when she was only ten years old. And we all know what happens when a girl loses her daddy too soon — or never knows him at all. It leaves a hollow place, the kind that follows her into womanhood when she’s trying to figure out how to be loved. A daddy’s faithful hand at the right time makes a difference. So does a daddy sitting on the porch at 10:59 with his Winchester Model 12, making sure the boy who brings her home knows she’s worth guarding. Granny didn’t have that. She went through all those tender years without her daddy there to look her in the eye and tell her she was more than good enough. That missing voice shaped her in ways she never spoke about, but you could see it play out in her choices.

The second heartbreak came with her first husband. Like most Southern girls, she had the picture in her mind of what it ought to be: a country farmhouse with a white picket fence, a garden out back full of tomatoes and squash, babies chasing chickens through the yard while freshly-washed sheets flapped on the line. That’s the dream. But Granny’s reality turned out different. Instead of a husband coming through the door at suppertime, she got phone calls — “caught up at a meeting,” “waiting on clients,” “the boss is pushing a deadline, but I’ll be home soon.” Always “I’ll be home soon.” But he never was.

She got the house, the babies, and even the chickens — but she never really had the husband. Because in Arkansas, under another roof with another woman and kids, he had the same setup. Same story, different ZIP code. Mama was barely two, Bruce just a year old, when the whole thing came crashing down. What a place to find yourself in as a woman, especially in the 50s — two babies on your hip, no husband you can trust or depend on, no time to sit and fall apart. Heartbreak or not, the next move had to be survival. Granny learned early what she’d spend the rest of her life doing: carrying on.

And as for him — the man whose name we don’t speak? He’s a ghost in the family story, like he never existed. Granny threw him out with the trash and never looked back. Call him what you want — liar, two-timer, coward — but I call him what he was: a man who mistook a good woman’s heart for something he could split in two. And here’s the thing: he didn’t win. Granny kept the babies, she kept her dignity, and she even kept the best parts of his family. He’s the only part she threw away.

Even with all that trauma to her heart, there was a silver lining. First and most importantly, without that particular chapter, Mama and Bruce wouldn’t be who they are — and for that, Granny was grateful. And she didn’t just walk away with children; she inherited another sister and another mama: Patsy and Grandma Candice. Patsy was a steady best friend, but Grandma Candice was a character all her own.

In 1972, when Granny was forty-one, she lost her mama, Granny Glenn. She was already married to my Granddaddy and raising a family of her own, but no matter how grown you are, you never stop needing your mama. From then on, Candice became the only mother she had left. She wasn’t anything like Granny Glenn, but she filled that role in her own way. Always in a pantsuit, never a dress, she carried herself with the kind of vanity that was half comical, half admirable. She worried over her thinning har — she never said “hair,” it came out har, like bar with an H. And after throat cancer surgery left a piece of her neck gone, she covered it with scarves or kept her hand resting lightly across it, never letting anyone see too much.

My Granny, Grandma Candice, and my Mama

Nobody knew how old she really was. Rumor had it she burned every legal document that dared print her true birthday. Her age shifted from driver’s licenses to J.C. Penney card applications depending on which fib she remembered last. Even her daughter, Patsy, didn’t know for sure. Every birthday cake was a guessing game, the candles changing wildly from year to year just for the laugh of it.

She married men twenty years her junior like it was nothing — the original cougar before anyone thought to coin the term. I lost count at marriage number four, somewhere around her seventies… or maybe her sixties… or twenties. Who knows.

And she was the queen of “nice nasty.” When Mama and Bruce were toddlers, she’d strip them down and plunk them straight into the bathtub before letting them eat ice cream — easier to wash the children than the furniture. And if they attempted to enter the house sweaty or dirty from playing outside, she didn’t even bother with the tub. She hosed them off first on the porch right where they stood. Cleanliness was non-negotiable.

Her house was unforgettable. Velvet paintings of Elvis and Jesus covered the walls, and I still couldn’t tell you which one she loved more — it might’ve been neck and neck. The whole place smelled like matches and pea soup. She always kept a box of matches on the back of the commode and insisted you strike one after using the bathroom. No sign was needed. You were just supposed to know better.

And then there was her food. She was a great cook, but it became tradition when Granny would take me to visit her that she would have waiting for me what felt like the height of luxury: pea soup and ice milk. Truth was, the “pea soup” was nothing more than the leftover juice from the peas they’d eaten the night before, warmed up and poured into a pretty china bowl. The “ice milk” was whole milk with a dab of vanilla and sugar, poured into a frosted amber glass until ice crystals formed on top. She’d hand me a dainty spoon, and I’d slurp it like it was dessert straight out of heaven. I loved visiting her, because she made plain things feel special.

It took me years to cut back all the kudzu off our family tree just to figure out who was who. There were “extra” grandmas and sisters in the mix, and I couldn’t untangle how they fit. It wasn’t until my twenties that I finally understood the truth of Granny’s life before Granddaddy. By then, the secrets were less a shock and more a pattern I’d already started to recognize: the kind of truths families tuck away in closets, waiting on a day that never comes — unless somebody goes rambling through. I’m the somebody.

By the time the dust from that first heartbreak had settled, Granny’s carrying on led her straight into Mittie’s living room, where she met my Granddaddy, Richard Jesse Allen Dunkelberger. He was born and raised in Scotia, Nebraska, the son of German immigrants. After joining the Air Force and training as an aircraft mechanic, he was stationed at Turner Field in Albany, Georgia. He fell in love with the place, and after his term of service was up, he stayed. That was the first thing he fell in love with about Albany. Louise was the second.

She was at one of her sister Mattie Mae’s parties that night — the kind of legendary gatherings where Albany’s finest and funniest showed up just to mingle, laugh, and carry on. Granny was there on a date with another man, but that didn’t faze Granddaddy one bit. He loved telling me later how, the minute he laid eyes on her, he knew she’d never leave on another man’s arm again. He knew then and there he was gonna marry that pretty little woman. Three months later, he proved himself right. They were married in Mittie’s living room, in a simple ceremony with family and close friends — fitting, since that’s where it all began.

And while the ceremony was simple, the honeymoon was theirs alone. They packed a bathing suit and towel, wrapped a raw thick-cut T-bone in tin foil, tossed a 12-pack of Budweisers into the cooler, and slid a portable grill into the trunk. Then they headed south to Panama City Beach. They rolled in just as the sky was turning pink over the Gulf, the waves clapping against the shore welcoming the sunny Florida morning and the newlyweds. They lit the grill, slapped down a steak, and toasted each other with ice-cold Budweisers as the sun came up, the air heavy with charcoal and salt. No fancy vows, no organ music — just two people grinning at each other with the kind of knowing that says, We’re gonna do it different. We’ll build this life our way. If it starts with steak on the grill, a three-hour drive, and beer at dawn, so be it. We’re in this together.

Honeymoon ~ Panama City Beach, 1959

Once they came back home, they settled into this new life. Granddaddy adopted my Mama, age five, and my uncle Bruce, age four. In doing so, he completely erased the shadow of the first marriage, so much so that I grew up believing he was our blood. I was well into my twenties before I ever knew different. By then I was sure I’d inherited a portion of his German temper and his flair for gaudy Christmas lights.

They bought a little house and began building their life, and it was Granny’s touch that turned it from boards and nails into a home. She was always good about making anywhere she was feel welcoming to folks. She was a pretty woman, too. And she was blessed with dark hair well into her seventies, with hardly a gray hair to be seen. Baby blue eyes that could tell you she loved you without a single word. She favored neat polyester pantsuits in colors that matched head to toe, with costume jewelry to sparkle and a pair of shoes and a bag to match. Later in life, I’m convinced she single-handedly paid Alfred Dunner’s light bill. In public she was polished and composed, a lady in every sense of the word. At home, behind closed doors, she could flash a temper or a quick wit, but she always knew where the line was. I like to think I got my wit, my love of clothes and jewelry, and the occasional hissy fit straight from my Granny… though Mama could throw one with the best of ’em too.

Granny worked as a secretary for Ryder Truck Lines for many years, keeping books and keeping order. She spent more hours with a bunch of over-the-road truck drivers than she did at home, and she knew how to hold her own in the middle of all that extroverted testosterone. She wasn’t technically the boss, but everyone in that office knew who was really running things. And heaven help the one who thought he was being funny by humming Randy Newman’s “Short People.” She hated it with a passion — said it was pure foolishness. I still laugh picturing her in that office, five-foot-nothing, glaring at some burly driver like she could take him down for even humming it.

Sometimes Mama would drop me off at Granny’s office after school on her way to the hospital for a shift, and I’d sit and watch her work. She was sharp, efficient, and respected, and I wanted to be just like her. At Granny’s house, I even had my own “office” set up with her 70s avocado-green typewriter, where I’d sit for hours typing letters, answering the phone, and bossing around imaginary truck drivers. When asked by folks what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always the same — a secretary, just like my Granny.

On the 45-minute drive home after work, Granny used to laugh and say she never worried about nodding off at the wheel, because I talked without taking a breath the whole way from the parking lot to the doorstep. And then there were my requests for her to do the “magic driving” without using her feet. As I got older, I realized it was just cruise control, but at the time she had me convinced she could do something no one else could.

Of course, when I asked Granddaddy if he had any “magic” he could do with his truck, he grinned, leaned to the side, and “tooted.” To him, that was high comedy, and it never got old. I kept asking, hoping for a different answer, but I never got one.

Granny did well for herself in that profession. She knew how to stretch a dime and set something back for later, and it paid off. She and Granddaddy retired at just 55 and bought the farm in Camilla they’d dreamed of — 120 acres with a pond. Granddaddy raised cattle and cursed their antics, because anybody who’s ever had cows knows they’ll bust through a fence quicker than you can fix one. Most every morning and evening, we’d ride the fence lines to check, and sooner or later one would be down. That meant everybody in shouting distance got called to pile in the truck and go round up cows.

Now, Granddaddy didn’t know how to say much without cussing, and God knows he’d never heard of an inside voice. He’d be hooping and hollering — sometimes at the cows, sometimes at us — while we scrambled to corral eleven-hundred-pound animals who weren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. Granny’s patience was long suffering, but when she’d had enough, it was enough. She’d march those little legs back to the truck, climb onto the tailgate, cross her arms, and just stare. No words, no fussing — just that look. And wouldn’t you know it, the hollering would stop.

Her backwards-pointing finger might’ve been famous, but that tailgate was her throne. Both had the power to stop Granddaddy — and the rest of us — cold.

Oh, that finger… Most folks point with the pad of their finger aimed out, like they’re pressing their words into the air. That’s how Granny started. She’d talk to you and pound that pointer finger like a little hammer coming down on every word. But the longer she went, the madder she got, and that’s when it happened — her wrist would start to twist. Slowly the pad of her finger would turn back toward her, and that nail would flip around to face you. And still, she kept jabbing the air with it, front to back. It didn’t look like much, but Lord, it carried weight. That was the universal sign: something was fixing to happen. Disaster or miracle, nobody knew which. What we did know was this — once the nail turned toward you, the whole room went quiet, and people found a reason to get scarce. Granny rarely raised her voice, but she never had to. She was a master at handing out clues you couldn’t miss.

Even my last ex-husband got it. After a family dinner where we announced our engagement, Granny wasn’t too sure about me marrying him. We’d only been dating a short while, and she hadn’t had the chance to size him up yet. So she told him to get in the car and drive her home. The family knew what that really meant. We all just looked at each other because we knew what was coming. Granny had her own brand of interrogation, and that backwards finger would be flying the whole time while she was laying down the law. Nobody ever knew exactly what she asked or said in those rides, but we all knew this much: you didn’t come back from one the same way you went in.

That was Granny — she could be tough when she needed to be, but most days her power showed up in quieter ways. At home she kept a tidy enough space, though she valued people and comfort far more than spotless perfection. She was an excellent cook — the kind of Southern cook who didn’t need recipes, who cooked from the heart with instinct, seasoning, and plenty of butter. Her fried chicken was a standout, but her salmon patties with macaroni and cheese, buttered rice, and sweet-milk peas would make a meal you’d never forget. And her cornbread dressing? Still legendary.

I always told her mine never came out like hers, even though I stood elbow to elbow with her every Thanksgiving and Christmas, trying to absorb every trick she didn’t write down. I’d follow her method to the letter, and still — it fell flat somehow.

One year, being half-goofy and half-serious, I hollered from the kitchen, “Granny, I need you to come stick your finger in this dressing. I swear that’s the magic trick.” And so she did — shook her head and said, “Good gracious, girl,” poked her little finger in the middle like she was entertaining one of my new superstitions, and went right back to what she was doing without missing a beat. And wouldn’t you know it, that year’s dressing was the best I ever made.

After that, it became a tradition. I wouldn’t bake the dressing until Granny came and stuck her finger in it. She’d giggle, I’d act like I was serious — but maybe I was.

The first Thanksgiving after she passed, I stood in my kitchen with a lump in my throat and tears in my cornbread. Because there are some ingredients you can’t buy or measure. Recipes are more than steps. They’re love and heart and fingers. And when those hands are gone, you feel it deep.

But a home isn’t made of kitchen memories alone. Just beyond the smell of cornbread and fried chicken, there was another scent that hung heavy in that house — bourbon. Life with Granddaddy wasn’t simple. He carried a bottle close, and when he drank, it changed him. The temper would flare, sharp and loud, and then just as quick it could collapse into tears and regret. It was a cycle everyone in that little house learned to read — when to laugh along with him, and when to blend into the wallpaper and wait for the storm to pass. Mama and I talked about it often through the years — how hard it was to say which was worse. Sober, he could be ill as a hornet. Drinking, he was the life of the party, the daddy who gave amazing gifts and had a spontaneous spirit to take car trips anywhere fun, until the glass tipped too far and the fun soured. That’s when dishes rattled, doors slammed, and the dark side of bourbon filled the house.

But when he was good, he was the best. The kind of daddy who packed up the car for beach trips, who walked his kids through the gates of Disney World wide-eyed like he was a child himself, who turned Christmas into a spectacle big enough to make up for every lean year he’d ever known. I think that was part of it — he hadn’t been given much of a childhood himself. His own daddy was hard, and his mama died when he was just a boy, leaving the farm and the chores to eat up the rest of what should have been play for him and his three brothers. Maybe that’s why he poured so much into making childhood shine for his own kids. And Granny saw all of it. She appreciated what he did for their children, but she also saw where his pain came from when he wasn’t the such a good daddy.

Christmas was his masterpiece. I laugh now thinking about the yard — Santa on the roof with reindeer, Santa at the door with his bag, Santa in the yard pulling yet another sleigh. Lit up so bright you’d think Turner Field was running a night flight. Granny tried to talk him down, said Santa couldn’t be in three places at once. Granddaddy just grinned, certain that if one Santa was good, three were better — and nobody in Albany was going to forget which house had cornered the market on Christmas spirit.

He gave Mama and Bruce Shetland ponies, taught them how to back a trailer, how to tend to cows, how to drive and work on tractors. He could be such a good daddy, until the bottle got the better of him. And then it turned rough. Not on Granny — never on her — but Mama and Bruce bore the brunt. Mama learned to keep herself busy, to slip away and do chores which she knew he admired. Bruce, still just a little fella, started out sharp and neat as a pin, smart as they come. But the bourbon-fueled Saturday nights wore him down. He looked for escape where he could find it, and substances became his way out. It changed him. Granddaddy’s expectations on those young kids were unreasonable. To this day, my Mama can’t stand a fallen pine cone on her property. When they were kids, part of their afternoon chores were to pick up pine cones in the yard. Once they did that and came inside, if one fell and Granddaddy came home in one of those moods, they paid for it. Some things you just can’t get out of you even if you try.

I never had the guts to ask Granny why she let it go on. I have my suspicions. Maybe she didn’t know how to break it — how to protect the kids without breaking her husband — who just hadn’t learned how to be a daddy yet because he had no example himself. Maybe she thought if she loved them hard enough, it might balance out the rest. What I do know is this: Mama and Bruce loved their daddy. For all his flaws, for all the harm, they loved him. And maybe that’s the clearest truth of it — children can recognize disease for what it is, even when it wears the face of someone they honor and adore.

But Granddaddy seemed to figure things out after I came along. He might’ve fumbled at fatherhood, but he stuck the landing at being a granddaddy. For much of my life, I had a front-row seat to a pair of people who were anything but ordinary. Back then, I thought that was just the way families were. Now I know better — and I’m grateful. They taught me early that “normal” is a myth, and even if it were real, it’d be overrated.

For much of their life together, Granny and Granddaddy worked the 3-to-11 shift. That meant mornings started late, and coffee was their first priority. It was taken in the privacy of their own little slices of heaven on earth: the bathroom. Granny had her own personal Mr. Coffee machine set up on the back of the commode, a stack of love-story paperbacks to choose from, and a heavy green glass ashtray for her smokes that could’ve taken out an intruder with one swat. That was her time, and she guarded it. She didn’t want to talk to anyone until she’d had those quiet hours to come alive. Then it was time for breakfast... at lunchtime.

That bathroom coffee habit started after Granddaddy lost his leg — diabetes and a foot injury that never healed finally took it from him. He couldn’t fetch his own coffee anymore, so Granny set a pot right there on the back of his commode for convenience. After a while she figured, why not me too — and did the same in hers. Most folks would wrinkle their noses and say, “Lord, that’s nasty.” But to them, it was pure luxury. Told you they were different. And I swear, with all those hours spent on their porcelain thrones, I know they ended up with matching rings on their bottoms to go with the ones on their fingers.

When Granddaddy passed in 1992 at just fifty-nine, she was robbed once again. Their life — the one they had toasted on that beach with steak and Budweiser — was supposed to carry them into old age, chasing cows, fishing, dancing in the kitchen. Instead, she was left to carry on alone.

Well, not completely alone. Bruce had his share of battles, many of them rooted in the shadows of growing up in a house where uncertainty lived. When he couldn’t always care for his two boys, Granny stepped in. She took those boys in as pre-teens and, at an age when most women are slowing down, she found herself playing mama all over again. It wasn’t easy, but she dug deep. And in her mind family was family — and when the need arose, you stepped up.

I don’t remember Granny talking much about faith when I was younger. There was a little church at the end of the dirt road by their farmhouse, the one where I’d ride the three-wheeler every summer for Vacation Bible School. Granny would march me up there to enroll, but I don’t recall her ever really going herself. The only story she ever shared about her faith was that as an eight-year-old girl, she walked the aisle during “Just As I Am” and gave her life to Jesus. And that was about all I knew for years. She’d always get tears in her eyes when she told it, so I figured something powerful had happened between her and the Lord — and she just chose to keep the rest tucked between her and Jesus.

It wasn’t until later, after Granddaddy passed and life had slowed, that faith seemed to grow louder in her. When her sister Mittie retired and moved back from Alabama, the two of them bought a double-wide on a little piece of property together near us in Tifton. That’s when they both started going regularly to a nearby church. By then, Granny’s faith was steady but still quiet — the kind that didn’t need announcing. She began reading her Bible daily, underlining and dating verses as she went, wearing out the pages with use. And when she wasn’t in the Word, she was soaking in the Gaither Family, her favorite gospel group. Mama would get tickets every year for the Homecoming concerts and take Granny and Mittie, and they looked forward to it for months. The rest of the year, their TV played either a Gaither VHS tape or a Braves game — hymns and homeruns, the soundtrack of their evenings.

When Granny and Mittie moved into that double-wide together, it wasn’t just the two of them keeping house — I was right across the street. They kept my boys while I worked, and I ran their errands and made sure they had what they needed. We leaned on each other in those years, and that’s what family did: you showed up for one another. Granny had her sister by her side again, and I had them both close enough to visit every day.

Granny & Mittie, sometime in the 80s

Granny’s health troubles didn’t just show up in old age — they started creeping in by her fifties. Heart attacks became almost routine, and more than once they landed her in the hospital right at Christmastime. Granny was convinced she knew the reason why. Not the bacon grease she fried every morning, not the chain-smoking she’d done for forty years, not even the stress her doctor warned her about from bottling everything inside. No, according to Granny, it was Scotch tape and the wrapping paper. She swore wrapping presents was the thing that nearly killed her. So she passed that duty off and I drew the short straw. From then on, I wrapped while she “supervised” and made rum balls. And as much as I can’t explain it, she never had another Christmas heart attack again. I’m not saying she was right — but I’m not saying she was wrong either.

One of those Christmases she spent in the hospital, Granddaddy strolled up to the third floor carrying her gift — a brand-new hunting rifle. He’d tried his best with the wrapping, but the barrel stuck out the top like a bright flag announcing exactly what it was. He walked right in that hospital room and handed it to her like it was the crown jewels. And there she was, propped up in bed, grinning and looking through the scope like she was ready to hunt right there from the sheets. Her doctor sat at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, cigarette dangling, smiling as if he’d just witnessed the greatest gift exchange in history. Things were very different back then.

Some of Granny’s best memories were made on the road with Granddaddy. They had an old camper with a sleeping berth over the cab — that little nook with the window where you could stretch out and watch the road roll by. It was my favorite place to ride. They put miles on that rig: trips up to Kentucky to see Granddaddy’s brother and his wife, out to Nebraska to visit family where he was raised, and always to Panama City or Disney World whenever the notion struck them. They went often just because they could.

Granny’s cousin Tiny and her husband, Aris, tagged along on many of those adventures, and the four of them could fill a trip with enough stories to last a lifetime. More often than not, those stories involved daiquiris or bourbon and amazing appetizers. On one winter trip, they pulled over at a little station for gas, and Granny and Tiny decided there was no need to buy a bag of ice. Why bother, when there was fresh snow on the ground? So right there on the side of the road, they scooped it into a bucket and mixed strawberry daiquiris out of snow instead of ice. Lord help us, I just hope they stuck to the clean patches, because rumor has it there may have been dogs close by.

By then, the ladies had already “sampled” a few, and with Granddaddy driving, they could enjoy themselves without a care. The only trouble was, in all that fun, they forgot one small detail — Aris. They were nearly an hour down the road before anybody realized he wasn’t in the camper. When they finally circled back, there he was, sitting on a bench out front of the station, cool as a cucumber, cigarette in hand. All he said was, “I was wondering where the hell everybody went.” Granny and Tiny had a big ole laugh, scooped up another round of frozen snow-concoctions, and off they went, Nebraska-bound like nothing had ever happened. They sure knew how to make fun out of anything.

Then one of Granny’s favorites to tell happened at Disney World. That trip, Granddaddy’s cousin Don and his wife, Lyla, had joined the four of them. Everyone but Granny and Tiny decided to ride Space Mountain. (Granny had vertigo, and Tiny wasn’t going to expose her hair to all that.) The two of them waited by the exit, and when the rocket-shaped cars came barreling in, they saw Aris in the back seat with Lyla sitting in front of him. Because of the ride having those long bench seats everybody had to straddle, Lyla ended up pressed back against Aris. To her it was nothing, but to Tiny — well, she saw her husband grinning like a possum in a persimmon tree, and she didn’t like it one bit.

She said nothing then, but she held onto that Space Mountain vision all day and stewed like a tomato. That night back at the campsite, they were grilling steaks. Aris was manning the grill while Tiny carried the steaks out to him. It didn’t take much to push her over the edge. Maybe it was the way he smiled at her, maybe it was the tone of his “thank you,” or maybe it was just the sound of him breathing — we’ll never know for sure. What we do know is that in one quick motion, Tiny hauled off and slapped him square across the face with a raw steak, then turned and walked back inside the camper without a word. No one asked, and no one needed to. That was Tiny’s way — a steak across the cheek was her version of a love note that said, I saw it, and I didn’t like it. Better sleep with one eye open.

Granny would lose her breath laughing telling that over the years. I believe it was just as vivid in her mind as the day it happened. I’m betting it was the same for Aris.

I grew up on those stories and more, and truth be told, I could fill five more books with their adventures. What I admired most wasn’t just the places they went, but the way they traveled together — flawed as they all were, they made space for honesty, laughter, and a kind of friendship that’s hard to come by. They had their rough edges, but they sure did have a whole lot of fun and made enough memories to fill a hay barn. I like to think they’re in heaven right now, giggling over the good times, still swapping stories of the good ’ole days.

I’ve never quite found a tribe of friends like that myself, though I’ve always longed for it. Maybe that’s the point — maybe it really was that rare, that special.

But time has a way of changing travel companions. Granddaddy was gone, then Tiny too, and those early adventures came to an end. Still, Granny wasn’t finished traveling. When life and health made it too hard for her and Mittie to keep house together, Granny packed up and moved in with my Mama. Mama was a traveling nurse, and Granny was ready for the next adventure. As for Mittie — well, she was supposed to come live with me and my crew, but I’ll save that hoot of a story for her chapter. Trust me, it’s a doozy.

Together Mama and Granny hit the road, traveling from beach to beach, following Mama’s assignments. Granny loved every minute of it. And in a way, she was following the same path her own mama had — living out her last years with her daughter, and finding joy in the journey.

Neither one of them ever said a whole lot about what those years meant to them. I don’t think they had to. But I’ve always imagined it. Maybe that’s just part of empathy — I tend to sit back and watch, wonder what people feel even when they don’t put it into words. And I like to think that in those years, with Granny and Mama side by side — partners in crime, making new memories as two grown women instead of mother and child — there was a whole lot of peace being made. Peace over the years when Granny may have looked the other way, or when hard things went unsaid. I’m sure my Mama would even say it was all worth it, just to spend that kind of time with her mama until the very end.

Mama and Granny

The women in my family have never been good at talking about the hard stuff. We just keep moving forward, trying to do better today than we did yesterday. Maybe that’s why I’m here — to be the mouthpiece for all of us. My whole life has been spent watching, listening, soaking them in. I feel like I know them best, through both experience and the stories handed down. I know their hearts and their hurts, their victories and defeats, their weaknesses and strengths. And our hearts beat the same. We love our family fiercely — we just don’t always know how to say it. But it’s always there, steady as breath. And even when the road gets rough between us, somehow we always find our way back to peace.

We always thought Granny would be the first to go. With all those heart attacks and scares, we braced ourselves for it time and again. But she outlasted them all — her husband, her sisters — still holding on, the way she always did, even with a frail body and weakened lungs from COPD at the end. And then, in the winter of her seventy-ninth year, each breath became more difficult. This time it was different than before. She passed at Mama’s house in her own bed with my Mama lying by her side telling her it was okay to go. It was an act of true grace and sacrifice, because I know how much she wanted her to stay.

I didn’t make it in time. Mama called, and we were already on the road, hurrying, trying desperately to see her one last time. Then I stopped in my anxiousness and I whispered a plea to the Lord in the backseat of the car — I asked for His wisdom: if I could bear it, let me make it in time to hold her hand as she stepped out of this world. But if I couldn’t, if it would be too much for me, then please take her gently and leave me with the memories I already carried. And He gave me that gift. He took her quietly, with Mama there to keep the room soft and peaceful, and He left me with every good thing I’ve told you here — and more that may never be written.

One of those good things was our mornings. When Granny moved in with Mama, it meant she wasn’t just across the street from me anymore. I couldn’t walk over barefoot and knock on her door whenever I wanted. So 10 a.m. became our time. By then she’d had her coffee, her meds, her routine — she was ready to talk. Sometimes it was only fifteen minutes, sometimes it was hours, but I never missed it. Ten o’clock became the rhythm of my days, the way her voice and her wisdom settled me.

After she was gone, 10 a.m. became the hardest part of my day. For nearly a year, the silence hit me like clockwork, sharp as a stone to the gut. I didn’t know what to do with myself when that clock struck the hour where her voice should’ve been. So I had to do something with the aching absence. That’s when I turned to writing. At first, it was letters I couldn’t send, conversations I couldn’t have. Then it became her stories, written down so I wouldn’t lose them. What started as “Granny’s Devotions” on Facebook grew into notebooks filled cover to cover.

Me and my Granny

I credit her for my writing. She left me stories enough for a lifetime. I’ll keep holding on to every memory, every detail, every beat of the heart she carried for this family. If the body of these women has a heart, it’s certainly her. And it still beats in me, every time I put pen to paper.

Granny’s story is one of quiet strength, steel without hardness, and love that never failed to show up when it mattered most. She wasn’t perfect, but she was present. And we remember her as a woman who carried herself like a lady, cooked like a true Southerner, and loved her people in ways that made you feel seen, known, and loved.

And when I think of her now, I don’t see the sickness or the struggle. I see her as she always was to me — five feet tall with the biggest presence in the room. The heartbeat of our family that still carries through us, even now that she’s gone. Her spirit still lingers in the women who remain — in our voices, our stubbornness, our love, and in the steady pulse of the bloodline she helped keep alive.

The beat goes on.