My granny's house was the central hub for the family for as long I can remember. Since her death in November and subsequent burial in December 2007, the surviving relatives have gone their separate ways. My architect cousin continues to work eighty-plus hours a week, my schoolteacher aunt enrolled in computer classes two years after having first purchased her desktop, and there have been two stillborns within the last two weeks.
Granny was the glue that held us together, even with my cousin and his new family stationed in Germany, and me in New York, she had a way of uniting all with phone calls. She keep us updated on who was doing what, and possible reasons as to why if it were something untoward.
She was ninety when she went home to glory, and I'm glad she lived as long as she did, but her long life brought with it a sense of expectancy. We all expected that she'd outlive us all as a testament to her will to survive and personal strength.
There's a void at granny's house in Houston. It's difficult for some to visit the house in her absence, because they know she won't be sitting on the corner of the sofa when they step inside the living room.
Sundays at Granny's after church were second-nature. The children raced inside to change into play clothes, some of the women stepped out of their heels and into slippers, while others headed to the kitchen to warm up the meal that had been prepared the night before or that morning. My mother or other aunts usually made the dessert.
There's no tragedy to speak of other than the splintering of my family back home. I'm powerless from where I sit, not that I could do anything to heal and reunite my family. It's painful to face Granny's absence. We all remember how she'd shuffle about her house, sometimes refusing help, her path blurry due to cataracts.
I feel her absence in my life, too. I've been unable to discard the ticket stub for the flight to Houston, as if holding onto it will bring her back to me, to us. It won't. Letting go will take sometime yet. When I close my eyes I can still smell her coffee percolating in the kitchen on the gas stove, and remember what the peach preserves looked like in the corner closet. Each room holds a special memory, all of which involve Granny's wisdom, guidance, energy, and smile.
I am in the early stages of gathering information that will become a family memoir. As with many other people who've written, or are planning to write a memoir, I think my family is worthy of a book-length manuscript.
Where to begin and what to write? My family wouldn't populate the state of Texas, but a small fishing village. We were awarded the largest family plaque at church years ago, before our numbers increased. I've lost count, or perhaps we've opted to stop counting how many grandchildren, great-grand, and great, great-grandchildren my ninety-year-old granny has. The last count was twenty-two grandchildren, and thirty-three great-grandchildren. We are moving into our fifth generation.
Granny originally had twelve children - nine daughters and three sons. Only two of the male children survived beyond infancy. As of this writing, both of my uncles and two of my aunts have died, along with two of my cousins.
I've been reading memoirs, creative non-fiction, and how-to write memoir books, with the express intention of learning from others who've gone before our family.
We have a large family as you read above. The question remains on why should I spearhead and write our story? Writers have written biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs for centuries. What do we hope to impart to a reading public? What makes our stories of breast cancer survival, diabetes, high-blood pressure, gossip, and betrayal unique?
Growing up in my family, I thought there was no end to aunts and cousins who were in every room, on the front or back porch, or in the spacious backyard. We exemplified that the motto that it takes a village to raise child. Sometimes this was a source of conflict among my aunts when commenting upon childrearing skills, or lack thereof.
I used to think that we were a less glamorous version of a nighttime drama. The women in my family were determined to raise boys who'd become strong men, with varying degrees of success.
Granny's house was kid central for children in the neighborhood. We'd play hopscotch in the street in front of her house using chalk from sheetrock we'd find here or there, dodge ball, or hide-n-seek at night.
I remember climbing the pecan trees in the backyard for my aunt who made the sweetest pecan pies, or just cracking the shells with my teeth, careful not to choke on the chalky fragments. There was a treehouse, clubhouse for our bicycles, and camping outside when some of us joined the Cub or Boy Scouts.
We temporarily had a horse in the backyard, Jenny, who broke free and escaped down the street after a neighborhood boy pummeled her with rocks. We were told horrible stories of her ending up as glue, especially scary for our young minds when it was time to buy back-to-school supplies: Elmer's Glue.
Granny Gums has been the family matriarch for as long as I remember. I don't remember my uncle who drowned on his high school field trip, or my grandfather who had a heart attack on the front porch swing, both within two months of each other in 1973. I remember my uncle who was a cook in the Army, who'd park his white mobile home next to the front window in driveway. I remember the plastic-covered furniture in his living room in Augusta, Georgia, where he'd relocated to after his tour in the Army.
We have to sort through what we remember, and what would be interesting for others to read. I know everyone in the family won't participate, or be happy with the finished manuscript.
I have a few memoirists on my winter 2007-2008 reading list: Augusten Burroughs, Nick Flynn, Mary Karr, Jeanette Walls, and Tobias Wolff. Each one writes differently, and focuses on specific aspects of their pasts. We're not setting out to write Roots, but a compelling story that others will enjoy, share, and perhaps learn something about our lives.
My granny's house was the central hub for the family for as long I can remember. Since her death in November and subsequent burial in December 2007, the surviving relatives have gone their separate ways. My architect cousin continues to work eighty-plus hours a week, my schoolteacher aunt enrolled in computer classes two years after having first purchased her desktop, and there have been two stillborns within the last two weeks.
