Gramps Loved One John

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On Sundays, when daytime soaps weren't available, gramps would watch marathon runs of westerns. She loved John Wayne. Gunsmoke was her favorite. She also enjoyed Bonanza and Petticoat Junction. I would crawl into bed with her and curl under the covers, pretending to have some interest in "her shows." That's what she called them. "Her shows." That's what she called her favorite daytime soaps, too. I must have been about 8 years-old or so. I just wanted to be close to her and feel safe, if only for a short time.



I left home in 1991. I was 18 years old. I returned once when I was 19 and once when I was 24. I have placed considerable physical and emotional distance between that place I call home and this new place I call home -- my grandmother is the lifeline between the two.

My Grandmother, the Bootlegger

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When I mention my grandmother's career choice people laugh. They don't believe me. My grandmother was a bootlegger. We lived in a dry county and the only alcohol you could buy was beer. Well now, my grandmother made a business opportunity out of that! For 30 years, my gramps (that's what I usually call her) served hard liquor to the old men, young men, old women, and young women in our town -- right from her kitchen table. It was the same kitchen table she used to prepare the best damn biscuits, fried chicken, and carrot cake I've ever tasted.



During the summers, I remember watching my grandmother sitting on her stool watching her favorite daytime soaps while she tended to her customers. Something was always cooking on the stove. Most of the time, she was frying the catfish she caught that morning. She usually rose at 5 am to go fishing, returned by 8am, cleaned the fish, washed up, and opened her doors for business by 10am. By 11:30 am, the television was tuned to the Young and the Restless and the house smelled of frying fish. She was the only old Black woman I knew who loved soap operas. The usual customers sat around the kitchen table playing card games, and I sat in a corner watching television and half listening to the men talk while they played their game. I would snicker when they grit their teeth, careful not to swear because "Ms. Freddie" didn't allow swearing around the children or in her presence.



As I grew up, I began to see my grandmother's customers not as customers, but as extended family members. They were always around and they started calling me "little Josephine" -- my mother's name -- because I looked so much like her. I knew much about their families, too. My grandmother became the confidant for so many members of the community that I began to trust her with my darkest secrets. As I watched her watch over so many others, I knew my grandmother was special.



My grandmother would send her last guest home by 9pm and began to enjoy the evening's solitude. Every night, she would sit at the very table where she served up shots of gin in small paper shot "glasses" and open her bible. She would read for what seemed like hours. From there, she would go to bed, wake at 5am, and start her day over again.



I have wanted to share memories, mental snapshots, stories (what-have-you) of my grandmother for some time now because she is a wonderful character. I don't want to wait until she's gone to do so. On this blog, I will share her life and hope she touches you the way she touches me. My grandmother is FreddieMae. I hope you enjoy.