Wife of John L.
(Apartment 1937)
Grandma’s apartment was pea sized or as some might say, she didn’t have room to “cuss a cat.”
Mrs. Artie Brooks, her landlady, lived in the rear of the close-to-the-sidewalk brick bungalow. Grandma’s quarters were a part of what used to be “Mrs. Brook’s Variety Store,” the little store where Edith and I had so much fun buying 5 and 10 cent Christmas presents for family members.
As I remember, there was a combination living room/kitchen, a pint sized bedroom and a bathroom. With certainty, there was no room for the glassed china cabinet, the leather couch or her other “pretties.”
She was in walking distance to the First Baptist Church, stores and the beauty shop. I thought the location would be just dandy for a quick stop off on our way home from school. Mama said not to bother Grandma, we’d best high-tail it home.
Grandma never set foot on our land. She was getting up in years but Mama said that wasn’t the reason she didn’t visit. “Grandma manages to go where she pleases, when she has a mind to it.” Mama said. The reason she stayed away from us was that she feared she might carry home a bed bug.
Rosie remembers Grandma fondly. Edith remembers special moments spent with her. My memories of her, my relationship with her are “from a distance.” I’ve plowed through my closet of memories, hoping to dig up a “something” that signaled an endearment, a something that told me I was a loved grandchild, a bit pretty, not all sass and vinegar.
She believed herself to be a gentle-woman and took great pride in looking and acting the part. Her silvery-gray hair was stylishly arranged in an upsweep, kept in place with a pair of pearl-edged combs. A strand of pearls around her neck, a touch of Violet or Lavender toilet water were her trademark. She religiously creamed her face with Ponds face cream and pampered her hands with Hinds Honey and Almond lotion.
She knew all of the “who’s-who” of Piedmont and surrounding areas and was known to keep her distance from people with questionable character. I once heard her comment that she wouldn’t go near the large, rowdy family who lived down the road from her farm. She said she didn’t “cast her pearls among swine.”
Silly little goose that I was, I asked Mama what she meant about giving her pearls to the pigs. I wondered why pigs were interested in pearls. Mama explained, or tried to explain, Grandma’s Biblical quote.
Years later, I understood that Grandma was using it out of context or misinterpreting the verse. Why! Grandma was pious! In some ways Mama was, too. She had unknowingly been a student of Grandma. Again and again we were ordered to stay away from the Jones’, the Smith’s, the Doe’s, even some of her relatives. They were from “bad blood.” Their bad ways might rub off on us. Mama preached: “Birds of a feather flock together,” or, “People are known by the company they keep.” My sister Ruth recalls crossing the street to avoid saying hello to a person Mama had declared unfit company.
The “piosity” was handed down from Grandma Hackworth to Mama. Mama passed it on to me and at least one of my siblings. We carried this ungodly “pearl thing” down the line to our children. Not with intent, not with spite, but because Mama and Grandma had taught us so well.
For years I had worried and stewed over, where did Grandma’s china go? Where was the big leather family Bible, the many pictures, the paintings, the cedar chest filled with hand stitched “Sun Bonnet Sue” and “Wedding Ring” quilts. I remembered my dad’s pittance: the about to come un-glued walnut desk and the almost blind, skin and bone dog.
My cousin Edward’s wife, Alice Carter, told me (c. 1989) “Jane, we have nothing of Grandma’s here. No lace-edged handkerchiefs, no brooch, no pearls, no ruby glass. No nothing.” “Sallie took everything. Not to treasure or pass on to us or to her grandchildren, but to sell.” And then: “You’ll never know how selfish, how greedy Sallie was; she was the most money hungry woman who ever lived.”
Alice was and is a dear person. I believe her every word. I had so hoped to take home a memento, a tiny bit of my dad’s mother to pass on to her great grandchildren.**
** Thanks, Mom. You did! You’ve given us these memories! What is a family but memories!”
