Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes

This is a project that I worked on for the Red Clay Writing Project this summer. The idea came to me at the very last minute while sitting at the Botanical Gardens during one of our writing marathons. My sister, Allison, was gracious enough to work with me on it, and it ended up being more meaningful than I even imagined. I enjoyed putting it together and sharing it with my family and the other writers in the institute.

I hope everyone who watches enjoys it. We all love our Rosemary!

Nana's Song

During the writing project I wrote this piece during our writing marathon in downtown Athens. While having a conversation with friends that day, we got on the topic of grandmothers. We all agreed that all of our grandmothers take us back to our childhood and remind us of who we are. As we exchanged stories, I mentioned that my Nana had been one of the first women in Lawrenceville to start wearing pants. Niki stopped and said, "Write that line down!! That is so cool- start your writing with that today!" and so I did. I was already writing a few pieces about her that I consider a collection (like the previous post), and this was added to it that day. Forgive me for using the same picture; I just love it. In case you wonder while you read, the stories are true.

My great grandmother was one of the first women in Lawrenceville to start wearing pants. When I think about her as a young woman, I think in sepia toned snapshots, old photographs that come alive in my head while keeping their same shades of brown. I know she was beautiful. It is both obvious from pictures and engrained in my mind as a fact of life in small town Lawrenceville. While visiting the many elderly people my grandmother checked in on even in her old age, they would get a dreamy far off look and tell me my grandparents were the best looking couple in town. It didn’t take much to convince me, even with white hair and wrinkles covering her face she was one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. Her beauty came from a deep place- what might have been surface level grace in her teens grew into every cell of her body, bringing joy, mercy, peace, and wisdom along with it. She wasn’t perfect, but who can even define the kind of person they would label that way? She talked a lot, and always commented on everyone’s weight. I was always too skinny or slightly pushing it. It was okay for her to be overweight, she explained, because one day she would be too old to eat and would need the extra cushion. Every Christmas, for the last ten years of her life, she would announce that this would probably be her last. Eventually we told her just to hush. But the idea of death didn’t bother her, she continuously talked about how rich her life had been. She was ready to go, and even when she did, her story was beautiful.

When she was in hospice, I had the chance to talk to her by myself. With tears filling my eyes and a heavy heart, willing my nerves to calm down, to focus, I spoke. I told her she had been the perfect example of a Christian in my life, someone who really lived out what she believed. She was kind to everyone. Age, race, social status, money—none of that mattered to her. She saw it and saw through it into who a person truly was. She had an unparalleled ability to comfort, the wrinkles on her brow moving in all the right places, the care shining through her eyes. She taught me what it meant to love others, to dance, and to laugh, but never at someone’s expense. She was both gentle and strong, one of her greatest strengths being her fierce love. When I told her what a great example she was to me and held her frail, wrinkled hand, she stirred. She looked over at me and with a humble smile managed, “I hope so.” I kissed her hands, told her how much I would miss her, and I left hysterical that day, unsure if I would speak to her again. Fortunately, I did.

The next weekend my brother got special permission to roll the piano into the room. He played her favorite hymns, and we all sang from the hymnal. We sang with joy because Nana would have it no other way. She hadn’t moved or spoken in days, but we knew she would enjoy it. Some glad morning when this life is o’ver, I’ll fly away. Her eyes fluttered as our unified voices rose together, ringing over her hospital bed. To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away. Mom went to her side, Nana’s hands clasping hers. I’ll fly away, Oh Glory, I’ll fly away in the morning. To this day the most beautiful thing I have ever seen is this loved ninety year old woman sitting up in bed and singing with all her strength When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.

At her funeral, there were only a few people wearing black. Wearing black at funerals didn’t sit well with Nana. As she said, we should be celebrating. And also crying a little. But celebrating through our tears. So we all bought colorful new dresses and wore them with her church hats. She had closets full of colorful hats from over the years, and we brought them in boxes, asking every woman to wear one and take it home. It was a lovely sight. The sun was shining, and my sister and I read a tribute we wrote for her. She would have loved it, and I hope that she did. For the longest time, I cried when I thought of her. I wondered and wrote poems about where the love between us went now that she was gone. I have faith that she still holds it, but also it is engrained into every fiber of who I am, a trace of where I’ve come from and who I hope to be.