My Grandmother…

My Grandmother can tell you what it felt like to ride a wagon to town.

My grandmother can tell you what it was like to have personally known men who fought in the Civil War.

My grandmother can tell you what it was like to watch silent movies.

My grandmother can tell you when and where she saw her first automobile.

My grandmother can tell you about the Great Depression start to finish.

My grandmother can tell you what it was like to have twelve siblings and one outhouse, and how, in the summer time, they kept the one story home cool in the summer by placing a block of ice in the window seal.

What my grandmother can’t tell you.

What she said five minutes ago.

What she had for breakfast lunch and dinner the day before, or that very day.

What her kids and grandchildren look like or what their names are.

But there’s one thing she hasn’t forgotten. How to play the piano.

My grandmother turns a hundred years old this year. She lived in an era that would most likely have killed us today.

I remember her strength. I remember her fried chicken on Sunday’s when we staid the weekend at her farm. She taught me how to skin chickens. She taught me a penny earned is a penny saved.

And I can tell you the first time she read one of my first stories and threatened to whip me with a switch because her daughter (my mother) would never lock me in my room because I had a giant earthworm growing in my stomach, and that it would come out at night and eat people. It took my sister a full day to calm her down. She didn’t switch me. “Stevie,” she said one day. “When you become a published writer, I’d love to read it. I’m so proud of you.”

Thanks, grandma! Thank you for all my childhood memories.

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