Flowering Up Heaven

I cannot think of Spring and Easter without remembering my MawMaw. She was no Southern Belle, but she was a true blue country girl. And like all good Southern women, she was a full-blown Rose but you better watch those thorns. She loved nothing better than to be outside with her green thumb. My Mama said she could put a stick in the ground and it would grow. There were always new things sprouting up in her yard. She lived right by the railroad tracks in downtown Smyrna, the Jonquil City, appropriately. Her spring patch had daffodils, roses, purple thrift all down the bank, a massive garden squeezed in between everything else, and the biggest snowball bush I've ever seen. I loved to hear her hum. It was more like a wheezing whistle, but I can hear it even now. I bet Jesus loves it too. 

She was a mess. Her house was never clean or tidy. She had a gozillion grandkids and there was always someone popping in. But it wasn't for the food. She made a black, mean cup of coffee and had cold biscuits on the table at all times. You had to find something to wash them down with or you might choke. She wasn't a big gift giver, card-sender or proper hostess, in any fancy sort of way. But my childhood was filled with her love, her unconditional way of just being there for me. Quality time was important to her. She couldn't drive, but if somebody cranked the car, she was in it. She loved people and going places, usually driving around the country. She'd come and stay a few days, but was quickly ready to get back to her little house. When you would get ready to leave, she'd say, "Now what's ya'll's hurry?" Even if we'd been there all day. She had grown up hardscrabble poor, so she knew how to stretch a dime. She also knew how to cook things like turtle, possum, even a fattened coon. I always hoped there was still peanut butter in the jar when it was lunchtime. 

When Ken and I suddenly got engaged, there was shock. We had been close friends, and some people didn't understand what happened to change everything, but when lightning struck it was time to get on with it. MawMaw wasn't surprised at all. She had been at our house one Sunday night when the singles group came over for a fellowship, so she had already met Ken. When I told her I was getting married to him, she laughed. She said, "I saw that electricity happening across the room in your Mama's den." She knew it before we did. There's still a warm place in my heart when I think of her words. She was intrigued with our lives, with our babies, with what we were up to. My heart is still connected to her, though she's away up there.

When we had two young children, ages 3 and 1, Ken and I bought a half-built home in Smyrna and were about to start working on it. She wanted to see it and also make a trek out to Dallas, where my parents were building a house. We spent all day, ending up eating a late lunch and being hot and cranky by the time we got to our respective homes. The next time I spoke to her, I told her that I was pregnant again. She about had a hissy fit. She said, "You're gonna end up being an old cow like me, having a baby every other year." I told her to hush up, that my Daddy was her eighth child. She was so proud of him and he did so much to help take care of her. I said, "MawMaw, what if you'd only had seven and not eight? You wouldn't have gotten my Daddy and I wouldn't even be here." Another week went by and she called me one morning. She did something she wasn't known for: she apologized. She told me she'd never thought about what blessings she had from having that many kids, only the difficult parts. She then said I was free to have all the kids I wanted. We laughed and talked awhile, then hung up. 

The next day, my phone rang again. It was my Mama telling me that MawMaw had died. They found her in her recliner, holding her coffee cup with coffee still in it, smiling. When I said goodbye to her in her casket, she looked like a pink angel. I thought of all the happy times I had spent at her house, carefree and wild. I remember her telling me that she always hated her name, Rose, until everybody started calling me Rose too. I imagine her up there with the Lord that she loves, laughing, no worries, no hunger, no pain. And I realize that I was wrong. She is indeed a Southern Belle...her name even bears it out: Rosa Bella. I sure do miss her.