Home Is Where The Heart Is...

Not many people can say that they were raised by a 60 year old. Rumor has it that before I was born, my Auntie and my Grandfather debated over whose birthday I would fall on. Hers was October 3rd. His was October 5th. I was born on October 4th. I've always joked that I was born to be the peacekeeper in the family, so naturally I split the difference. Lula Mae Granberry was my great-grandmothers' sister, hence: my great-great Aunt. I called her Auntie. She was not able to have any children of her own so, instead, she helped raise my grandmother, my mother and then me. She was 67 when I was born, and there was an instant connection the moment she saw me. I became hers.

My childhood at her home consisted of warm homemade cherry pies, picking fresh vegetables from her garden, watching her cook in the kitchen, fried eggs, biscuits and Owens hot sausage for breakfast, coffee and pecan shortbread cookies for snack, tuna sandwiches and soap operas for lunch and the humming sound of the a/c unit in her kitchen window during the heat of summer. She hung her laundry on the line out front, and her washer and dryer were in a makeshift room connected to the garage, which was separate from the house. My entertainment as a child was asking her to tell me stories of her past. I would sit for hours asking her to tell me stories that I had already heard a thousand times. I couldn't get enough of them. She would smoke her cigarettes, drink her coffee and always laugh in the same spot of the story. As she got older, things impacted her more deeply and she would tear up recalling those old memories. I loved going through her things. I would memorize her dishes and pick out the ones that I wanted to inherit one day. I also spent hours looking at her old pictures or organizing her costume jewelry. She even caught me on occasion playing with her makeup. She loved pink nail polish and she had this lipstick that was green, but when it touched your lips it turned pink. I was fascinated with it.

As I got older, I would force her to slow down when she cooked so that I could notate every ingredient and step in the recipe. She made practically everything from scratch. She began losing her eyesight by the time I was in my late teens. She had to feel the ingredients for the right amounts, and she ran her hands over the dishes after washing them to make sure there wasn't any food residue that she missed. All dishes were washed by hand. I began helping her put on makeup when she needed to go out. I made sure to draw her eyebrows just right and paint her nails that perfect shade of pink. When she finally stopped dying her hair, it faded from a fiery red head... to a beautiful dark auburn sprinkled with grey.

She passed away in 2004. There aren't many days that go by that I'm not reminded of her. Some days it's simply a dish that I use, that was hers. Some days it's a meal that I cook. Changing the sheets and folding the laundry also remind me of her. She had her own way of doing everything and it was mesmerizing to watch her work her magic. Everything was done to perfection.

That simple, country life is something that you rarely find anymore. Life is such a whirlwind of appointments and to-do lists. People are so rushed all the time that they miss out on enjoying the simplest of things in life. A cool breeze. The smell of coffee brewing. The sound of rain. The feel of home. Something in my spirit is connected to that simplicity. You can call it old fashioned. You can call it vintage. But I've made it my life's goal to fill my world with things that take me back to that wonderful serenity.

This is my journey home....