Memories of Mawmaw
BY STEPHANIE MCKINNEY
The azure sky was imported silk stretched across an artist’s canvas. The great
white cotton poodle chased the majestic unicorn across the sky before being swallowed up
by the sun’s brilliant light. As I swung from the tire swing suspended from the
mammoth oak tree, I arched my back until my hair gently brushed the emerald grass below. I
could smell the sweet honeysuckle that was hanging from the electric fence behind me; the
quiet popping reminded me of the hidden danger it held. I was five years old and my life
was full of fantasy and fairy tales. It’s funny, I guess the world didn’t look
much different then than it does now. For some reason, though, it has never seemed the
same. My great-grandparents’ home was my castle.
As I put my feet down to stop the swing, I could hear my grandmother singing a magical
song in the kitchen. She was a Cherokee Indian and always had a story to tell—whether
it was in word or in song. I loved to listen to her voice. I walked over and picked up a
little gray kitten from underneath the hen house. I was just about to go back to the
swing, when Mammaw King paused from her sweet song to call me in for breakfast. I put the
kitten back under the hen house and headed toward the kitchen door. I could hear the hens
cackling in the distance, as if to signal success in their work. As I walked across the
yard, the smell of Mammaw King’s sausage and gravy was tainted by the lingering odor
of the outdoor toilet. How I hated that thing! I was always afraid to go in there. It was
dark, and it smelled terrible. After all, who knows what was hiding down in that hole,
waiting for just the right moment to attack.
When I reached the house, I opened the screen door. A loud screeching noise greeted
me—as if to welcome me inside. The welcome was soon overcome by a quick slap on the
behind, pushing me inside. A loud clap followed when the door slammed shut in disgust from
my lingering too long in its path. My castle. In reality, it was a tiny little green house
that must have been over fifty years old even then. It was drafty and all of the floors
creaked like arthritic bones. The wallpaper was stained and peeling off in several places,
yet it was my favorite place to be. As I made my way into the dining room, I stopped to
swipe a hot biscuit from the pan sitting on the old wooden pie safe. I sat down at the
dining room table and my eyes began to wander. I could see the antique sewing machine with
the big iron pedal underneath, sitting in the doorway to Mammaw’s bedroom. Countless
times I had gotten into trouble for playing with that pedal. Her bed was high off the
floor (perfect for hiding under) with a long white afghan on it that we weren’t
allowed to sit on. A huge poster of Elvis hung on the wall above her bed. I had no idea
who this man was, much less why my Pappaw would let him hang above his wife’s bed. I
had asked him about it once and he’d just laughed. He’d said that Elvis was the
man that Mammaw had really wanted to marry. However, Elvis didn’t have enough money
to buy her a ring. It wasn’t until several years later that I understood the humor in
that story.
As Mammaw sat down at the table, she looked over at me with the most beautiful loving
smile that I had ever seen. As I looked through her onyx eyes to the window of her soul, I
saw her as she must have looked as a young woman. Long, flowing black hair framed her
beautiful face. Naturally tanned skin accented her beauty as diamonds decorate a finger.
The white birthmark on her right cheek shone brighter against her dark skin. She was
laughing, and tossing her hair over her shoulder as she spoke. How lovely she must have
been.
I snapped back to reality when Mammaw asked me to pass the eggs. As I handed her the
platter, I looked at her. Her hair, stained with white streaks from years of experience,
was neatly braided and tightly wound into a knot at the back of her scalp. She always let
me help brush and braid her hair, and I was very proud of what we had accomplished earlier
that morning. Her skin, still beautifully tanned, was wrinkled and loose. Her hands, once
fine instruments, were now old and bent, ravaged from years of hard work. Time had surely
taken advantage of her young body. Still, however, she was the most beautiful "old
woman" that I had ever seen.
Full of life, love, and spunk, Mammaw loved to watch wrestling on television. I often
laughed at her as she shrieked at the sight of her favorite wrestler. It was as if she
were a hormonal teen again. "He is soooo handsome, Stephie," she would say,
smiling brightly. She also loved to play outside with me. We would run and dance until we
both fell exhausted to the ground. She was my best friend. No other adults ever had time
to play such silly "kiddie games" with me. As I sat there, I realized that my
favorite thing about Mammaw was the wonderful stories that she would tell me. One tale in
particular stood out in my mind as being my "favorite." Every Christmas I would
write down my wish list for Santa. Mammaw always read over it carefully and often took a
few notes. When she was done, we would take it outside and burn it. She said that the
smoke went up to the North Pole to tell Santa what I wanted. She also told me that I could
write letters to Heaven; God could read the "smoke signals" too…
Mammaw got up from her rusty metal chair with the lime green vinyl covering, and began
clearing the table. She walked over to me and gently kissed my cheek. Her eyes danced with
love. Never before had I felt so safe and happy.
Mammaw died eight years ago. She has gone on to join the Ancient Ones. I am glad that
my daughter carries a little white birthmark on her leg. It is somehow like Mammaw put it
there personally to remind me that she will never leave me. That little house has long
been condemned. I often drive by there and just walk around outside. I can still hear the
hens cackling, and smell the honeysuckle on the fence in the backyard. Occasionally, I
think maybe I can catch a hint of sausage and gravy. Despite years of neglect, that
horrible outdoor toilet is still standing. That mammoth oak tree, which cradled me as a
child, still stands, clutching the rope which held the tire swing. Sometimes, when I look
up at the sky, if I listen closely enough, I can still hear the sweet sound of my
grandmother’s voice telling me a story or singing a magical song. Sometimes, I even
write her a letter and send it to her in Heaven, because I’m sure she can read the
smoke signals. The old house lies in a heap of wood and debris, old and withered. That
house may not have been a grand palace fit for kings and queens, but Mammaw’s spirit
filled it with love. That was worth more to me than all the diamonds and gold you could
offer. It is that house that gave me my best childhood memories. It was the best castle a
little girl could have asked for.
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