Below is the eulogy I gave at my grandmother’s funeral today. She was a special woman who lived a long life filled with purpose and self-discipline.
Hey, I’m Mark. I’m Steve’s second son and, obviously, Mammy’s favorite grandchild.
Sure, Mammy was always nice to the other cousins, but deep down, we all knew who she loved the most.
Going to Mammy’s house in Ocilla was always an incredible treat for our family. Not only did we get Yoo-hoos and pork rinds at the gas station halfway there, but when we got there, we knew great adventures were in store for us ahead–especially when all the grandkids got together.
Like when we spent the afternoon collecting crickets. Later that night as we slept, those crickets chewed through the mesh to escape into Mammy’s house. They hid in all the crannies, reminding us they were there in the silences between conversation. Even after our family gathering was done, those crickets were found chirping inside for weeks.
I remember the time we cousins found O’s ripe tomatoes growing on the vines. I don’t remember which cousin started it–and there’s a very slight chance it was me–but someone had the bright idea of splatting a ripe tomato on the back of another kid’s neck. Before long, we were lobbing tomatoes like grenades and ravaging every dangling vine we could find. As the acidic/earthy scent of tomato seeds wafted in our nostrils, it dawned on us all at the same time that we’d have to report to O what we did. Needless to say, after that confession, we never touched his garden again.
A year or so later, Josh and I discovered the joy of throwing mud clumps against the guest room’s popcorn ceiling after a particularly messy play session outside. When Mammy walked in, it dawned on us that we’d need to give another report to O. Josh and I stayed far away from anything messy for years after that.
Mammy’s house had the coolest-looking ridged metal storm drain that went all the way from her front ditch to way behind the house, and we would often dare one another to see who could climb the farthest down it. I don’t think any of us made it the whole distance before getting scared, but the hope of trying something new, pushing ourselves farther than we had been before, kept us coming back.
Mammy’s house also had this special treat called cable T.V. Whoever got the coveted gold pillow got the best seat in the house, lounging in the middle of the den floor.
The minute one cousin walked away from the gold pillow to go to the bathroom, a scramble happened to claim ownership, and the channel was quickly changed from Saved by the Bell to Hanna-Barbera cartoons on the USA Cartoon Express. Most of the pillow tussles were tame, though an occasional few involved busting heads on the brick stage that held Mammy’s potbelly stove.
We grandkids fought over that giant woodgrain T.V. so much that Mammy ended up getting a second T.V. just so the adults could watch a Braves game every now and then in the other room.
One summer, my parents dropped me off at Mammy and O’s house for a week. It was just me. No brother; no parents. I had my grandparents all to myself. That was my favorite memory at Mammy’s house.
That’s when it became certain that I had to be Mammy’s favorite grandchild.
I could watch all the Hanna-Barbera cartoons that I wanted. No rivals were there to turn the channel during my bathroom breaks. Not only did I get to watch my favorite old cartoons, but I enjoyed some of the best black-and-white sitcoms on Nick-At-Night without anybody saying I should turn it. There was a celebration of times past at Mammy’s house, and these old shows just felt fitting.
Mammy’s house was more than a place for watching channels we didn’t get at home, though. Whenever she got the chance, she would tell us about time-honored traditions that her mother had learned during the Great Depression.
One night, I found myself raving about her delicious warm angel biscuits yet again. The next afternoon, she asked me if I wanted to learn how to make those biscuits myself. She explained that this was one of the many recipes her mother had taught to her.
Mammy patiently walked me through the steps of putting simple, affordable ingredients together to come out with a culinary masterpiece that melted in your mouth. We made angel biscuits together EVERY night that week, and that–with a drizzle of syrup and butter–was all I wanted after every meal.
I learned that week how to make gravy; how to make syrup with water, sugar & maple flavoring; and how to make one of my favorite dishes of all time: Mammy’s potato soup.
Mammy’s potato soup was legendary in our family, but it wasn’t that creamy, fancy kind you’d expect at some high-falutin’ restaurant. It was simple, but with all the right ingredients that her mother had come up with to feed a hungry family.
Slices of potato, a ham hock, water, milk, butter, and chopped-up boiled eggs. That was it. Pair that with a sleeve of Saltines, a few rings of raw Vidalia onions and a generous dash of pepper, and you’ve got heaven in your mouth.
In her 93 years of living, Mammy learned a thing or two about survival. She grew up on a dairy farm, where she learned to tend to cows and keep a home in tip-top condition. She married a farmer and kept his household running until his death in 2002. After that, she continued the routines, kept cooking as long as her energy would let her, and remained the perfect hostess for all of her guests.
She passed on the lessons she had learned to those she loved. (Especially to those of us she loved the most.)
Nights at Mammy’s were a distinct departure from the exciting events of the daytime. While offering caffeine-free Diet Coke floats for anybody who wanted them, Mammy would share nostalgic memories with her guests. When all the stories had been told, she’d be content with reading the latest Christian romance novel. Meanwhile, O was in the next room telling foreign strangers on instant messenger about Jesus. (You could sense his urgency, because he always typed in caps.)
At bedtime, it often took me a while to get to sleep in Mammy’s guest room. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable or anything. I was just too busy recapping the adventures had or the lessons learned prior to the sun’s descent. When you laid in my chosen bed–the one by the far window–you could still see the faint stains from mud clumps on the popcorn ceiling. It was a subtle reminder that we could do better, and that Mammy always encouraged us to be better.
Even though we cousins had the potential to drive Mammy and O crazy at times, I never remembered them raising their voices at us. Their implied disappointment was all it would take to make us strive to do better the next time mischief reared its alluring head. That expectation of personal improvement made a huge impact on my efforts as an adult.
Mammy’s house was always a haven of peace. It was always open for her family to visit. Her spirit was one of endless compassion and acceptance. She loved her family, and she told us that often. She lived an incredibly long and fruitful life, and I’ll always be grateful… to be her favorite.
Mammy’s secret was that she made all of us feel like her favorite.
Whenever we visited, we had her full attention. When others came over, she’d always regale with pride the accomplishments of her children, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. Mammy loved her family, and that Christlike compassion was in the essence of her being. That’s how I’ll always remember her:
Treating every person in front of her like they were her favorite.
