Grandmas and Trains, Part 2

The Continuation of MawMaw's Story.....

Since there were eight siblings in my Dad's family, and they seemed intent on filling and subduing the earth with their offspring, we had tons of cousins. Any time we visited MawMaw, there were people coming and going. There was always really black coffee and a pan of stale biscuits on the counter. Her hockey-puck biscuits were pretty sad examples of Southern cooking (maybe that's where I get it) but beggars can't be choosers. (I married a man whose Mama makes biscuits that taste like pieces of heaven. How do you get over that?) PawPaw died in a car wreck when I was seven years old, dying like he lived...drunk. I remember that night so vividly. My sister and best friend, Melanie, and I were throwing a ball in our front yard and Daddy was working with a wheelbarrow. Mama ran outside suddenly and spoke with him, then he flew out to his car and squealed out of the driveway, almost running over the wheelbarrow. Mama took us inside and told us the sad news. Sometime later, we went to MawMaw's house, where our huge extended family had gathered. A large group of cousins went upstairs to the attic rooms. I remember feeling numb and horrified that he had died. My older cousins talked into the night and Melanie and I sat holding hands, mutely, listening.

Before the funeral, his coffin was put in the front parlor of MawMaw's house. I was both fascinated and frightened by seeing him there. I could never again go in that room without being reminded of that sight. It was the first death I experienced. I had this urge to laugh and then to cry. I put my hand over my mouth and pinched hard to keep quiet. I kept going back to the coffin again and again, trying to make sense of death. How do you do that when you are seven years old? 

After that, MawMaw seemed to thrive. One time, in a weak moment, she told me that sometimes she would wake up from a nightmare, where the police were banging on the door, looking for PawPaw. Then she'd wake up and realize that he was dead. And that was a relief. I can't imagine the drama that she lived with all those years, with trouble and sorrow weighing her down. But after his death, she had so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, there was always someone visiting. Her old, rickety house was eventually burned down by the fire department, after a cinder block shop in her backyard was fixed up and made into a darling little bungalow for her to live in. She had the greenest thumb I've ever seen. If she stuck a stick in the ground, it would grow. She was always piddling in her yard and around her garden. It was a riot of vines and color, just like her. She was an old soul and she loved people. When we would get up to leave from a visit, she would fuss and try to get us to stay longer. Yet, if she came to stay with anyone, she would get restless and want to get right back to her own house. I loved the times that we drove around the countryside with her, with her showing us old homeplaces and fields from her childhood in the Buchanan area. Those memories never fade.

When Uncle James, her oldest child, died from a lung illness, I was about 20 years old. It almost put her in the grave. She got very sick, unable to digest her food or enjoy anything. Eventually she was hospitalized and managed to muster out of it. She was one of those people who bore things deeply. She worried and fussed. She was a strong Christian, a Pentecostal who spoke in tongues and embraced all the charismatic gifts. But she admitted to me that she always had a difficult time trusting God. She had seen many hard  times. She had known extreme poverty, hunger, deceitfulness from others, hardship like no one I've ever known..... she loved God though and struggled with her trials. When I think of her now, many years after her death, I smile because I see her in heaven, unburdened from the heavy load that she had borne here on earth. I can imagine her laughing, with no cares, living in perfect peace and love, never hungry again, never fearing anything again. I can just imagine her exhorting us to not worry, because He really does have it all under control, even when it doesn't seem like it. As I touched her leathered, sweet hand in her casket, it occurred to me that this was a woman that worried every day of her life that she wouldn't make it through. But she did, dying easily in her recliner, with a coffee cup in her hand (not even dropping it) and a smile on her face. She had mowed her own grass the day before, fussed at all of us the week before and had made it right the day before she died. An imperfect gal who ultimately trusted in a perfect God. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.