Anne & May

Hey guys! Hugs, hugs, hugs all around. I've missed you so much, and I have so much to tell you. The moment Blogger locked our blog, my life got pretty interesting. I went to a huge flea market and bought some amazing antique suitcases, I started an herb garden on my balcony (thanks to my sister-in-law, Beth), I bought a wedding dress, and I turned 30. But then, something sad happened, so all of those blogs will have to keep. The day before I turned 30, my final grandparent died.

My grandmother's name was Myrtle, and she was my biggest link to the Old South. She was born in Florida and had two sisters name Mildred and Madrid (pronounce maaa-drid, like Hagrid from Harry Potter, not like the place in Spain.) But she outlived both of her younger sisters by a long stretch.

Grandmommy, as I called her, was the sweetest gal that ever walked the earth. She called everybody, Shug, and would always say, "Come hug Grandma's neck," every time you saw her. And if you were lucky, and she was feeling talkative, you could get her to tell stories about the old days.

One time, when my fiance was meeting her for the first time, she got to talking about "the kids these days." She said, "I don't spect I understand why the kids these days like to wear the labels on the outside of their shirts."

"Oh," I said. "You mean like when T-shirts say Nike or something?"

"I guess so," she said, shaking her head. "It's just that when your daddy was little he always had me put the label on the inside."

We all just stared at her, not really sure what she meant. Luckily, she continued. Grandmommy was from such a foreign world that following her stories was often difficult.

"We would get the flour, you know, in nice cotton sacks." Her voice faded and she looked off in the distance for a second. "We were so poor and I made all the kids clothes to get by. But your daddy didn't want people to know that. So he always had me put the flour label on the inside of the shirt, so as people wouldn't know."

I'll remember that day until I die. It's a story I will tell my children and my children's children. A story about where we come from, about the hard times in the South. There are many more of course, tales about the ice box with a big chunk of ice in it, stories about Granddaddy working on the mail train, sorting and delivering mail all over the Florida Panhandle, stories that make me who I am.

She died in her sleep and finally went to be with my grandfather, a man she married as a very young woman, who died in his early sixties, who she's pined for every day of her life since. Once an old man in her retirement community took a shine to Grandmommy. I said, "Grandmommy, you could have a boyfriend!"

She said to me, "Shug, I'm already married." And that was the way she saw it. So I'm happy for her, up in heaven, fussing over Granddaddy again.

I love you, Shug.

--May