This post was originally written September 1, 2006 and I re-post here to share with my new friends.
Everyone called her “Miss Myrtle”. WE called her Mama Storment. My dad once said to my OTHER grandmother, DeeDee, that she should be a proper grandmother (uh, more like his mother) to her grandchildren. Anyway, this grandmother was sort of traditional. The OTHER was modern. This one worked in the yard and the other took us to play Putt-Putt.
You can’t see them but there is a magazine rack full of seed catalogs by her left knee. There is also a Reader’s Digest. A little further to her left is a treadle sewing machine where you had to pump the tread to make it go. Every Christmas there was a large bowl of walnuts in the shell and tangerines.
Behind her there on the buffet is a picture of my mother.
Mama Storment let me feed the hens and get the eggs. Once, she loaned me a book called The Harvester by Gene Stratton-Porter. This was the ONLY book I ever saw in her possession. I loved it. It was so descriptive! It was a romance written from a naturalist’s point-of-view. It captured my imagination. (I wish I had it.)
Her bathroom smelled of air freshener and rosebud salve. The clock in her room ticked loudly and chimed the hours (and maybe the half hours). She had some Mr. Peanut salt & pepper shakers beside it.
Her home felt like home. People visited. Lots of laughter.
There was a front porch where there were chairs and a swing. You could look across the lawn to all the blooming plants and flowers.
Across the street was a funeral home. It was standard fare to speculate about who was “up at the funeral home” and to turn on the radio at a specific time of day to hear the county funeral reports to the tune of “Old Rugged Cross” playing behind the report.
At Christmas we had a real Christmas tree which they flocked with soap suds (I think) and decorated with the old ceramic lights and ancient ornaments. Later, there was dinner together and I remember the Ambrosia.
It is she who prayed for me and told me so. I was so lost…and so hurting. I hope she knows that I came to Jesus. We’re going to see each other again.