I have always been fascinated with the stories my grandmother would tell me. They were also sometimes hard to hear when she would recount some of the hellish moments she had been through, but at the end of these stories, I always pictured her as the heroine coming out on the top. She was much like the characters in my favorite movies and books. She was Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird standing for justice for those who could not defend themselves. She was Iggy in Fried Green Tomatoes, taking care of those less fortunate, and she was as fearless at Towanda, the Righter of Wrongs. She was as witty as any of the ladies in Steel Magnolias, and as strong or stronger than Malin.
I had decided that I would write a book about these stories. These stories I believe would ring truth to all those that read them. The only problem is that I have only written bits and pieces. And now as her life has come to an end, I am disappointed that I have not shared her with the world like I had planned. I am truly sorry for this. I have, however, now been given an opportunity to speak to you about her and what she means to me and what I will always carry with me. It’s not a book (maybe one day), but it is from the heart. I love you Maw Maw Faye, and this is for you.
For a moment, I’d like to take you back to somebody’s yellow house. To the left side of the house, there is a stone wall, just right for testing your balancing skills (hey, you can pretend your Baby from Dirty Dancing; Maw Maw Faye is so cool to let you watch it). To the right side of the house is a sand pile. Your younger cousin Brooke and you could really build some castles with that sand. In the backyard, there is a plum tree, a perfect snack. You also wondered why there are cactus plants in the backyard.
As you head through the front door of somebody’s yellow house, there is a swing on the front porch just waiting for a fresh cup of coffee and conversation. As you enter the house, you take a deep breath and smell fried ham and bacon. There’s a 70’s style blanket folded into a pallet on the floor just waiting for a baby to take a long nap. You can also hear the sound of a sewing machine humming. Somebody’s yellow house is small, just two bedrooms, but to you it seems so big. In the only bathroom, there is strawberry scented suave shampoo on the side of the tub. In the cabinet, there’s a jar of Ponds. When you back out, you look for paper in the sideboard to draw a picture or two while sitting at the table in hopes it makes the refrigerator with the asparagus magnet. You get hungry and decide it’s time for a fried bologna sandwich. While you are eating the sandwich, you decide it’s time to pull out the old blue suitcase and look at old photos and stare at people you know and others you never knew but know it’s okay because they are all family.
I miss somebody’s yellow house but more importantly, I miss her. I selfishly feel like a child again, wanting to run to somebody’s yellow house and into her arms, crying, and thinking why did you leave me. I long for one more story. It’s now my turn to sing to my little one a Bushel and a Peck. I put on my ponds every morning and night and when I start to miss her, I will wash my hair in strawberry scented suave shampoo. I’ll pull out the old blue suitcase and look at her picture. I’ll tell William Michael her stories, and she will always be the heroine. I’ll smile because she is and was the heroine and is not a made up character though she will be in a book one day. I’ll hope and pray, too, that someday somebody will long to come and visit me in my yellow house (I’m glad my house is yellow).