I know my grandmother – the shape of her, the smell and the feel of her. When I was a kid I’d rub her cold, soft ears, my grip loosening as I drifted off to sleep. Even as an adult, I find comfort in the warmth of her hand on my leg, her arm around my waist. I know her in a tangible way, and I know her life, her history, but I’ve always felt like I was missing something – a piece of her lost somewhere. Something about her stuck in my headspace.
My search for that something began with a knee length, sleeveless dress made of thin cotton. The pale blue fabric is pleated around the breast and accented by cream-colored trim and buttons. Although it is slightly faded, the dress is timeless. I’ve often tried it on, slipping my arms in ever so delicately as not to damage it. As I felt the white teeth of the zipper biting into my skin, I imagined what my grandmother must have looked like in her youth. She must have been tiny, possibly malnourished, because the dress fits firmly against my small frame.
I spent a lot of my youth with Grandmother, Ila Sue, out on the family farm. This was the place where she grew up, and where her mother lived until she passed away at 92. The farm was filled with golden rows of corn and wheat, fenced in herds of cattle, and a make-shift fire pit for burning trash. My cousin, Matt, and I often played together while Grandmother shucked peas or corn, or whatever else was in season. We ran in between the long, green stalks while she shot the crows so they wouldn’t demolish our corn crops. I heard a pop from the shotgun and watched as black spots dispersed into the sky. This didn't bother me at all. Growing up in a farm culture, you learned to love the inherent beauty of death. The decay of the corn crops each year, their stalks melting into the rich soil.
We watched as the birds flew away, their blackness beading through the bright blue summer sky. But I certainly hated it when I came across the carrion. The bird carcasses would usually get covered up by fire-ants - nasty little red ants that thrive in the Alabama heat. I hated to see those ants’ gnawing and exposing the bird-flesh hidden under those silky black feathers. People always complain about the mosquitoes in the South, but for me it was those fucking ants, all over everything.
Ila Sue wore the blue sundress, which was far from a white, silk gown, on her wedding day. She went to Mississippi at age twenty-six to elope. Traditionally, this story would end with her parents disowning her, but my family had a knack for deviating from traditional plot lines. Her parents, along with most of the family, were actually relieved that she had finally gone through with it. At that time, twenty-six was verging on old maid status, and the family worried that she’d end up a spinster.
Not that Ila didn't receive offers. In fact, she was quite popular during her youth and went through several suitors. Her suitors often took her to the Red Pig drive-in for a milkshake. One boy, named Vernon Brown, even made a formal proposal. He was an established member of the town who ran a business of hearses. In those days, the hearse was often used as an ambulance as well as a carriage for the dead. She once told me, “I might not have liked to be seen ridin’ round in a hearse.” Ila may have been turned off by his business, but when I asked why she had refused the proposal, she simply said, "Well, I never did think enough of him."
"So you didn't like him," I asked, trying to get more out of her.
"Not enough," was her only reply.
By the time I was born, the Red Pig drive-in was closed, but it didn’t matter because my grandmother preferred to cook her own meals. I grew up with my legs glued to her kitchen floor, watching her as I sat bare-legged on those sticky, plastic tiles. I wasted entire afternoons on that cold floor, wrapped in an oversized T-shirt, staring at my grandmother’s long fingers as they hypnotically swirled batter in a bowl. Her short blonde hair was stiff and coarse from years of curlers and hairspray. The wrinkles on her face might have looked stern if it wasn’t for her soft, blue eyes. I watched as she smashed out the lumps in the batter and tilted the bowl beside a baking pan. Once she was pleased with the consistency, she took a spoon and layered the batter into the pan. When the last drops trickled out, she skimmed her finger across the edge of the bowl to stop batter from dripping on the counter. I watched with delight as she rinsed her finger under the faucet. I knew that the aroma of the cake would soon fill the house.
She used to carry me with her everywhere she went. At times it felt like I saw her more often than my own mother, who was often flying out to D.C. for work.
One night, while Grandmother was trying to make dinner, I begged her to pick me up. I reached up and squeezed my tiny hands open and closed.
“Maw Maw,” I called, smiling up at her with my fat, dimpled face. I squealed as she threw me across her hip. She opened the freezer to grab the peas and then remembered the boiling water. Her head turned towards the stove for just a second, but it was one second too long. I heard a thwap as I swung open the freezer door, hitting the side of her face. We both watched in amazement as a small white particle fell from her mouth to the ground. There, on the black and white linoleum floor, sat a tiny white tooth. I stared wide-eyed at the particle, waiting for punishment. Without saying a word, she sat me on the floor where I promptly picked up the tooth and handed it over with a tentative smile. My grandmother, being a religious woman, tried not to cuss. Instead she said, “Well, shhht,” as if leaving out the vowels made it okay. She said it in an almost whisper, as if she was saying, “Shhh, be quiet.” I found her non-cuss cusswords funny and often laughed when she got upset.
The South is famous for its bravado, so I knew it couldn’t be a true Southern story, the kind my grandmother was so famous for, without a little exaggeration. As an adult I became curious about the validity of this tale. When I asked her about it, she said “Girl, you knocked it out all right, just like they said.”
Despite her wrinkled grin, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with guilt. She must have seen the frustrated expression on my face, because she quickly added “Oh, honey, it wasn’t my real tooth. Only the cap, my dear.”
When I was a kid, we called my grandfather “Grandaddy Beard.” I later learned that this nickname was another one of my grandmother’s little white lies. My grandfather’s real name was JT, but people always called him “Beer.” He got the nickname, Beer, because of his affinity for a certain southern treat. Ila made it by combining beer seed (what we now call hops) and grapes into a jar. Beer liked to grab a handful of the grapes as they were just beginning to ferment. But my grandmother didn’t like the idea of her grandkids saying, “Beer did this, or Beer did that,” so she cleverly tweaked his name.
Ila Sue dated a series of men before falling for Granddaddy Beer. Unlike most women in the town, Ila didn’t rush to marry, but instead courted her future husband for three years. Lots of people in town rushed into marriage because, well, they wanted to have sex. I wondered if my grandmother had stayed a virgin for those three years. If she had, then she must have been the picture of self-control. If she hadn’t, then she was one hell of a transgressive woman. Either way, it was an impressive courtship for the 1950s. But I didn’t know which scenario was true and probably never would. I felt that asking might somehow violate the terms of our relationship. So I instead asked why she chose to wait so long.
“Were you unsure about Granddaddy Beer? Did you like other boys?”
She laughed, “Well heck no. We were poor as dirt back then. Your Granddaddy Beer and I couldn’t bear the thought of havin’ a family and not bein’ able to feed ‘em, so we made a deal. I told him that if he saved enough money for a house, I’d help by savin’ enough money to furnish it. Once we had both done our part, we agreed to get hitched.” I looked at her model and knew I could never marry for anything less than a true partner, no matter how much time it took, no matter if it never happened at all.
It wasn’t until she told me the story of how her marriage was almost prevented that I really began to see her as a woman, more than just my grandmother. She was always someone else’s before she was mine, and even after.
In 1952 and Ila was living on the Buchanan family farm, which encompassed several acres of lush Alabama land. The little wooden house was located across the pasture adjacent to the corn field. All of the Buchanan family had gone to town for the day, except Ila, the eldest daughter. Inside the house, Ila carefully removed a black, used suitcase from underneath her bed. She dusted off the front flap with the small of her hand. After tossing it on top of her bed, she opened the door to her closet. Bending her torso slightly, she ducked into the small, dark space. Ila's head barely cleared the closet doorframe. Waving her hand, she felt for the light cord. She tugged at the string and heard a click. Her eyes took a second to adjust to the bright, dusty mesh of clothes. She scuffled through the closet, looking for her best outfits to take on the following day's journey. Sliding the wire hangers across the pole, she examined the colors and textures of each garment. Her heart dropped; there was no silk, no chiffon. It was all cotton. Cotton was everywhere in the South, she couldn't get away from it. Could she really get married in cotton? She could ask a friend to borrow a dress, but they would surely want to know what it was for.
Frustrated, Ila threw the clothes on her bed. Yellow, pink, and grey dresses spread out before her. There was not a white dress among them. But her eyes stopped at a thigh-length, sleeveless sundress made of sheer cotton. It would show off her long, skinny legs. JT adored her legs. The dress would also serve her well in the hot Mississippi sun. The pale blue fabric had tiny pleats around the breast. The dress was accented by cream-colored trim and buttons. It reminded her of the Alabama sky, clean and cloud-studded. It fit tightly on Ila's small frame, but tapered at the waist.
This was the one.
A soft smile spread across her face. She packed a few more outfits, ones that she knew JT would like. She knew his taste well; after all, they'd been dating for over three years. After replacing the unwanted dresses in the closet, she fastened her blonde hair in soft, sticky rollers. Taking a good look in the mirror, she noted that she was not a blonde bombshell. No, she definitely wasn't a Marilyn. If anyone in the family was a Marilyn, it had to be her sister, Calla. Calla worked hard to transform her farm-girl looks. Her full lips had crisp lines that she accented with coral lipstick. Her eyes had that sleepy, seductive characteristic. The lashes, lengthened with mascara, fluttered and cast shadows across her cheeks. Her beauty, and perhaps her affinity for a good time, made her the center of attention. Sensuous and passionate, she became a young bride while Ila kept the family farm going.
But Ila was handsome in her own way. Her hair was the color of wheat gleaming in the sun. Although she rarely blushed, when she did her cheeks took on the color of a summer sunset. She observed her straight, small nose, which was not displeasing. But her eyes were surely her best feature, wide and bright blue.
She spread cold cream across her face, minding any stray hairs. The tingling made her feel fresh and young. But her family was always quick to remind her, half joking, "You're no spring chicken." It was true; she was twenty-seven and had passed on previous proposals. But tomorrow would be different. She was an adult now and ready for the full, overwhelming weight of love. Tomorrow she and JT would leave Guntersville, Alabama and head to Mississippi to elope.
She thought about their plan as she carefully folded each dress. She and JT wanted just a few moments of privacy. Ila didn't want to share this moment with the whole town. JT was also a private person, which was what initially sparked Ila's attraction. When he asked her to marry him and suggested that they elope, she was elated. After the dresses were packed, she looked around the room. Her gaze stopped at the family portrait on her dresser. All three sisters stood in a row, she in the middle with the younger two on each side. The picture was taken before Margret and Calla were married, before Ila had met JT. They posed outside, with the stretch of grey hills in the background. Her sisters showed their teeth with wide, fake smiles, while Ila's mouth remained slack. Margaret and Calla looked straight ahead at the camera, but Ila's attention was elsewhere. She looked off into the distance, to some faraway place. Ila turned the picture face down and began rummaging through her drawers. The plan had proven harder than she expected. She had to hide her anticipation from the family, Calla especially.
Ila began packing her toiletries: perfume from Paris, rollers, rouge, and a soft pink lipstick. She delicately placed each item in the side pocket of her suitcase. The marriage wasn't a secret she intended to keep forever. She planned to tell the family as soon as it became official. Comforted by that thought, she continued to fill her suitcase, gently folding her undergarments. These she tucked at the bottom of the suitcase. Suddenly, Ila was startled by the quick click of heels coming down the hall. Calla flung open the bedroom door to find Ila packing.
"Ila, what are you doing? Where are you going? I knew something was wrong."
Ila looked at her with disappointment. She took a deep breath a quietly said, "Well, I guess you might as well know. You'd find out sooner or later."
Calla removed a cigarette from her pocketbook, resting it between two fingers. Her bright red nails glittered against her tan hand. She lifted the cigarette to her lips and lit the end, sucking in slightly. When she pulled the cigarette away, Ila noticed that her nails and lipstick were perfectly matched.
"Don't smoke that in here. Go outside. You know I don't like the smell."
"Not until I get an answer. Are you leaving us?"
Ila pursed her lips and looked at Calla with cold, hard eyes. Ila was always so responsible, responsible for everyone. She just wanted this one moment for herself.
"Oh, Calla, don't be so damn dramatic. I'm not leaving. JT and I are getting married in Mississippi. We'll be back in a week’s time."
"But you're making a huge mistake."
"Just because your marriage was a mistake doesn't mean mine will be."
Calla's short, bleach-blond hair flickered around her face as she flung the clothes out of Ila's suitcase and onto the floor. Ila didn't try to stop her. Soon, skirts, dresses, and undergarments lay crumpled beneath their feet. Calla collapsed on top of them and began to cry. Tears trickled across her cheeks, smearing mascara down her face. She cried out, "You can't get married. You're all I have."
One night, Calla’s husband gave her a serious scare after he'd finished off a quart of whiskey. He began yelling, telling her how she couldn't keep a house – couldn't cook or clean. Their argument escalated and he threw her against their newly-papered kitchen walls. After he passed out, she called Ila to come and pick her up. That night, Ila had promised that she would always come, no matter what the circumstances. Calla wondered if she'd keep that promise once she had her own family, her own husband.
Ila sat down on the floor beside Calla. She held Calla's chin in one hand and used the other to wipe her cheeks.
"Look at you. You're a mess," she said tenderly. Ila paused for a moment and considered the situation. Calla needed her, but she needed JT.
"You know, Calla, I want to leave and never come back. I want to see new places, meet new people, start a life of my own. I want to leave this dry, desolate farm and see the big city. Just me and JT. The sad part is that I will come back. I will always come back."
One night, my mother showed up at Ila’s house with me and my sister. Mom was cussing under her breath and her eyes were a glassy red color. Ila asked, “What the heck is going on?”
“David has threatened me for the last time!” she exclaimed.
“What?” Ila replied with an astonished look. She could see that my mother’s marriage was going badly, but she couldn’t get her to talk about it. Mom was private and independent, which made it hard for Ila to tell what was going on.
Mom glanced over at me and my sister and whispered to Grandmother, “Keep your voice down, mother. The girls will hear. He said that if I left him, he’d kill me. He said he would get a gun and shoot me in the head.”
In that instant, many would have succumbed to fear, but not Ila. She put on her glasses, picked up the phone, and calmly dialed.
"Hello, David, this is Ila speaking,” her words were slow with a careful determination.
“Well, hello there. Have you heard from my…”
Ila cut him off, “Listen here, now. I am a God-fearing woman, but if you threaten my baby girl ever again, I will get my shotgun and, son, I will blow you into the next world.” With that, she clicked the phone back on the receiver. The next week she ordered my mother to get her things from the house and move in with her until she found a place of her own.
Ila never moved outside of Guntersville, but she and Beer spent many loving years together raising their two daughters, Aleeta and Angie, until one unfortunate day.
From the living room window, Ila watched Beer fall to the ground as he suffered a second major heart failure. She ran out to the cow pasture where he had been standing. The dry grass was crushed around the area where he had stood only moments ago, leaving a dark imprint in the field. She had told him not to work out there, not in this heat. Why hadn’t he listened?
After his funeral she went to see his doctor, searching for answers. He told her, “There was nothing you could have done. During his last visit the x-ray showed that his heart had swelled to three times the normal size. He knew he only had a few months left.” He’d lied to her, to the girls, for those past months, pretending everything was still the same. But Ila didn’t feel betrayed by the lie; she felt relieved. Their last days together were not marred by the looming despair of death. Still, it was hard to shake the guilt she felt at not being there for him in those final dark moments. Over time she accepted it, realizing he had committed an act of grace in sparing them the knowledge of his dark secret. When she got older, she was even able to laugh about it.
That man’s heart was just too damn big.
My grandmother was a tough farm girl, which made it hard for me to accept that she was getting old. It was particularly hard when she broke her femur and couldn’t walk for several months. At the time, she was living by herself in an old, two-level house. She had to walk down stairs that were six inches wide to get to her laundry. The family knew it was an accident waiting to happen. Luckily, two of my cousins were there with her when she fell. They called the ambulance right away, but she still had to be hospitalized for several weeks. When she was finally discharged, she stayed with my aunt and cousins. I knew I should go visit her, but I was scared to see her like that – so weak and vulnerable. I finally convinced my sister to go with me. We waited until midnight to make the drive – it was always easier at night. The drive from Virginia to Alabama took eleven hours, and it gave me time to think, to worry. Would my wild, energetic Ila Sue be replaced by a sad, weak old lady?
By the time I came to visit, she was able to hobble with a walker down the hall. Most of the day she sat in a lazy chair near the TV. I sat beside her and got up every now and then to get her water or a snack. She still couldn’t bend down to use the toilet, so the hospital gave her an uplifted one that she could use in her bedroom, but it had to be rinsed out after use. Once when it needed to be cleaned, my grandmother called me over and asked me to do it. She laughed and said, “I used to clean up your poop, now you’re gonna clean mine.”
Her friends called frequently, stopped by to check on her, and sent her several homemade pound cakes (her favorite). In fact, they sent so many pound cakes that she made me take two back home to Virginia. She asked me how I was doing in school, how my career was going, what my boyfriend was like. But I was taken aback when she asked, “When are you two getting married?” I quickly changed the subject to a movie I had recently seen – The Divinci Code.
Grandmother may be somewhat unconventional, but there is one point on which she would not budge. She was a devout Baptist, so devout that she refused to read or even watch The Divinci Code. I tried to explain that it was a work of fiction, but she stubbornly shut me down.
“Alyssa, Jesus is immortal – the son of God.” When she got like that, there was only one thing to do – shut up and nod.
One afternoon, I was sitting with her, wearing a light, flowing skirt, similar to her sundress, which fell past my knees. My long hair was wavy and uncombed. My aunt and cousins started laughing, “Doesn’t Alyssa look like one of those holiness girls?”
My grandmother didn’t hesitate, “Y’all stop pickin’ on her. It ain't nice to make fun of people.” She shot each of them a stern look until the laughter subsided.
During the visit, I learned that her broken femur wasn't the only bad luck she'd had. While she was in the hospital, someone had broken into her house.
"Well, what did they take? The TV? Jewelry? Money?"
"No, they mostly just took pillowcases full of food. They stole my costume jewelry and some other knick-knacks, but nothing worth much."
"How weird. Do you think they were crazy people?"
"Well, maybe not crazy, maybe just down and out. If they really needed it, then I'm glad they took it, poor dears."
While I was in town, my aunt, cousins, and I went to check on Grandmother's house. Upon inspection, we found two boxes of stolen goods sitting out in the backyard. The presence of these boxes creeped me out. My aunt said, “Maybe they left it out here planning to come back for it.” She called Grandmother's gardener, who had been by after the burglary, to see if he had noticed the boxes. He told her “No way,” there hadn’t been any boxes there when he came.
When we told grandmother, she said, “Well, I'll be. I bet they heard I was in the hospital and brought some of it back. Don't that beat all?” It was possible, considering that Guntersville was a small town and most people knew Ila. But I still doubted it.
My sister, my cousin Katie, and I stayed at the house to discourage anymore burglaries. We flipped the lights on and off, made noise, watched the TV on loud. When it came time for bed, we all decided it would be best to sleep together. The beds weren't big enough, so we made a pallet of blankets in the middle of the living room floor – just like Grandmother had done for us when we were kids. If a burglar had broken in, he would have had a good chuckle at our expense – three grown women sprawled on the floor amongst a pile of blankets when there were two perfectly good beds. Despite being huddled together, my doubts about human kindness kept me awake that night. I knew that, had she been there, Grandmother would have slept like a baby.
When we had to go back to Virginia a few days later, I was sad to say goodbye. I wanted more time with her – more time to figure out who she really was. In the end, I left knowing that my love for her as a Grandmother – first and foremost – would always obscure my understanding of her as a woman.
In some ways, she would always be unknowable.
My search for that something began with a knee length, sleeveless dress made of thin cotton. The pale blue fabric is pleated around the breast and accented by cream-colored trim and buttons. Although it is slightly faded, the dress is timeless. I’ve often tried it on, slipping my arms in ever so delicately as not to damage it. As I felt the white teeth of the zipper biting into my skin, I imagined what my grandmother must have looked like in her youth. She must have been tiny, possibly malnourished, because the dress fits firmly against my small frame.
I spent a lot of my youth with Grandmother, Ila Sue, out on the family farm. This was the place where she grew up, and where her mother lived until she passed away at 92. The farm was filled with golden rows of corn and wheat, fenced in herds of cattle, and a make-shift fire pit for burning trash. My cousin, Matt, and I often played together while Grandmother shucked peas or corn, or whatever else was in season. We ran in between the long, green stalks while she shot the crows so they wouldn’t demolish our corn crops. I heard a pop from the shotgun and watched as black spots dispersed into the sky. This didn't bother me at all. Growing up in a farm culture, you learned to love the inherent beauty of death. The decay of the corn crops each year, their stalks melting into the rich soil.
We watched as the birds flew away, their blackness beading through the bright blue summer sky. But I certainly hated it when I came across the carrion. The bird carcasses would usually get covered up by fire-ants - nasty little red ants that thrive in the Alabama heat. I hated to see those ants’ gnawing and exposing the bird-flesh hidden under those silky black feathers. People always complain about the mosquitoes in the South, but for me it was those fucking ants, all over everything.
Ila Sue wore the blue sundress, which was far from a white, silk gown, on her wedding day. She went to Mississippi at age twenty-six to elope. Traditionally, this story would end with her parents disowning her, but my family had a knack for deviating from traditional plot lines. Her parents, along with most of the family, were actually relieved that she had finally gone through with it. At that time, twenty-six was verging on old maid status, and the family worried that she’d end up a spinster.
Not that Ila didn't receive offers. In fact, she was quite popular during her youth and went through several suitors. Her suitors often took her to the Red Pig drive-in for a milkshake. One boy, named Vernon Brown, even made a formal proposal. He was an established member of the town who ran a business of hearses. In those days, the hearse was often used as an ambulance as well as a carriage for the dead. She once told me, “I might not have liked to be seen ridin’ round in a hearse.” Ila may have been turned off by his business, but when I asked why she had refused the proposal, she simply said, "Well, I never did think enough of him."
"So you didn't like him," I asked, trying to get more out of her.
"Not enough," was her only reply.
By the time I was born, the Red Pig drive-in was closed, but it didn’t matter because my grandmother preferred to cook her own meals. I grew up with my legs glued to her kitchen floor, watching her as I sat bare-legged on those sticky, plastic tiles. I wasted entire afternoons on that cold floor, wrapped in an oversized T-shirt, staring at my grandmother’s long fingers as they hypnotically swirled batter in a bowl. Her short blonde hair was stiff and coarse from years of curlers and hairspray. The wrinkles on her face might have looked stern if it wasn’t for her soft, blue eyes. I watched as she smashed out the lumps in the batter and tilted the bowl beside a baking pan. Once she was pleased with the consistency, she took a spoon and layered the batter into the pan. When the last drops trickled out, she skimmed her finger across the edge of the bowl to stop batter from dripping on the counter. I watched with delight as she rinsed her finger under the faucet. I knew that the aroma of the cake would soon fill the house.
She used to carry me with her everywhere she went. At times it felt like I saw her more often than my own mother, who was often flying out to D.C. for work.
One night, while Grandmother was trying to make dinner, I begged her to pick me up. I reached up and squeezed my tiny hands open and closed.
“Maw Maw,” I called, smiling up at her with my fat, dimpled face. I squealed as she threw me across her hip. She opened the freezer to grab the peas and then remembered the boiling water. Her head turned towards the stove for just a second, but it was one second too long. I heard a thwap as I swung open the freezer door, hitting the side of her face. We both watched in amazement as a small white particle fell from her mouth to the ground. There, on the black and white linoleum floor, sat a tiny white tooth. I stared wide-eyed at the particle, waiting for punishment. Without saying a word, she sat me on the floor where I promptly picked up the tooth and handed it over with a tentative smile. My grandmother, being a religious woman, tried not to cuss. Instead she said, “Well, shhht,” as if leaving out the vowels made it okay. She said it in an almost whisper, as if she was saying, “Shhh, be quiet.” I found her non-cuss cusswords funny and often laughed when she got upset.
The South is famous for its bravado, so I knew it couldn’t be a true Southern story, the kind my grandmother was so famous for, without a little exaggeration. As an adult I became curious about the validity of this tale. When I asked her about it, she said “Girl, you knocked it out all right, just like they said.”
Despite her wrinkled grin, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with guilt. She must have seen the frustrated expression on my face, because she quickly added “Oh, honey, it wasn’t my real tooth. Only the cap, my dear.”
When I was a kid, we called my grandfather “Grandaddy Beard.” I later learned that this nickname was another one of my grandmother’s little white lies. My grandfather’s real name was JT, but people always called him “Beer.” He got the nickname, Beer, because of his affinity for a certain southern treat. Ila made it by combining beer seed (what we now call hops) and grapes into a jar. Beer liked to grab a handful of the grapes as they were just beginning to ferment. But my grandmother didn’t like the idea of her grandkids saying, “Beer did this, or Beer did that,” so she cleverly tweaked his name.
Ila Sue dated a series of men before falling for Granddaddy Beer. Unlike most women in the town, Ila didn’t rush to marry, but instead courted her future husband for three years. Lots of people in town rushed into marriage because, well, they wanted to have sex. I wondered if my grandmother had stayed a virgin for those three years. If she had, then she must have been the picture of self-control. If she hadn’t, then she was one hell of a transgressive woman. Either way, it was an impressive courtship for the 1950s. But I didn’t know which scenario was true and probably never would. I felt that asking might somehow violate the terms of our relationship. So I instead asked why she chose to wait so long.
“Were you unsure about Granddaddy Beer? Did you like other boys?”
She laughed, “Well heck no. We were poor as dirt back then. Your Granddaddy Beer and I couldn’t bear the thought of havin’ a family and not bein’ able to feed ‘em, so we made a deal. I told him that if he saved enough money for a house, I’d help by savin’ enough money to furnish it. Once we had both done our part, we agreed to get hitched.” I looked at her model and knew I could never marry for anything less than a true partner, no matter how much time it took, no matter if it never happened at all.
It wasn’t until she told me the story of how her marriage was almost prevented that I really began to see her as a woman, more than just my grandmother. She was always someone else’s before she was mine, and even after.
In 1952 and Ila was living on the Buchanan family farm, which encompassed several acres of lush Alabama land. The little wooden house was located across the pasture adjacent to the corn field. All of the Buchanan family had gone to town for the day, except Ila, the eldest daughter. Inside the house, Ila carefully removed a black, used suitcase from underneath her bed. She dusted off the front flap with the small of her hand. After tossing it on top of her bed, she opened the door to her closet. Bending her torso slightly, she ducked into the small, dark space. Ila's head barely cleared the closet doorframe. Waving her hand, she felt for the light cord. She tugged at the string and heard a click. Her eyes took a second to adjust to the bright, dusty mesh of clothes. She scuffled through the closet, looking for her best outfits to take on the following day's journey. Sliding the wire hangers across the pole, she examined the colors and textures of each garment. Her heart dropped; there was no silk, no chiffon. It was all cotton. Cotton was everywhere in the South, she couldn't get away from it. Could she really get married in cotton? She could ask a friend to borrow a dress, but they would surely want to know what it was for.
Frustrated, Ila threw the clothes on her bed. Yellow, pink, and grey dresses spread out before her. There was not a white dress among them. But her eyes stopped at a thigh-length, sleeveless sundress made of sheer cotton. It would show off her long, skinny legs. JT adored her legs. The dress would also serve her well in the hot Mississippi sun. The pale blue fabric had tiny pleats around the breast. The dress was accented by cream-colored trim and buttons. It reminded her of the Alabama sky, clean and cloud-studded. It fit tightly on Ila's small frame, but tapered at the waist.
This was the one.
A soft smile spread across her face. She packed a few more outfits, ones that she knew JT would like. She knew his taste well; after all, they'd been dating for over three years. After replacing the unwanted dresses in the closet, she fastened her blonde hair in soft, sticky rollers. Taking a good look in the mirror, she noted that she was not a blonde bombshell. No, she definitely wasn't a Marilyn. If anyone in the family was a Marilyn, it had to be her sister, Calla. Calla worked hard to transform her farm-girl looks. Her full lips had crisp lines that she accented with coral lipstick. Her eyes had that sleepy, seductive characteristic. The lashes, lengthened with mascara, fluttered and cast shadows across her cheeks. Her beauty, and perhaps her affinity for a good time, made her the center of attention. Sensuous and passionate, she became a young bride while Ila kept the family farm going.
But Ila was handsome in her own way. Her hair was the color of wheat gleaming in the sun. Although she rarely blushed, when she did her cheeks took on the color of a summer sunset. She observed her straight, small nose, which was not displeasing. But her eyes were surely her best feature, wide and bright blue.
She spread cold cream across her face, minding any stray hairs. The tingling made her feel fresh and young. But her family was always quick to remind her, half joking, "You're no spring chicken." It was true; she was twenty-seven and had passed on previous proposals. But tomorrow would be different. She was an adult now and ready for the full, overwhelming weight of love. Tomorrow she and JT would leave Guntersville, Alabama and head to Mississippi to elope.
She thought about their plan as she carefully folded each dress. She and JT wanted just a few moments of privacy. Ila didn't want to share this moment with the whole town. JT was also a private person, which was what initially sparked Ila's attraction. When he asked her to marry him and suggested that they elope, she was elated. After the dresses were packed, she looked around the room. Her gaze stopped at the family portrait on her dresser. All three sisters stood in a row, she in the middle with the younger two on each side. The picture was taken before Margret and Calla were married, before Ila had met JT. They posed outside, with the stretch of grey hills in the background. Her sisters showed their teeth with wide, fake smiles, while Ila's mouth remained slack. Margaret and Calla looked straight ahead at the camera, but Ila's attention was elsewhere. She looked off into the distance, to some faraway place. Ila turned the picture face down and began rummaging through her drawers. The plan had proven harder than she expected. She had to hide her anticipation from the family, Calla especially.
Ila began packing her toiletries: perfume from Paris, rollers, rouge, and a soft pink lipstick. She delicately placed each item in the side pocket of her suitcase. The marriage wasn't a secret she intended to keep forever. She planned to tell the family as soon as it became official. Comforted by that thought, she continued to fill her suitcase, gently folding her undergarments. These she tucked at the bottom of the suitcase. Suddenly, Ila was startled by the quick click of heels coming down the hall. Calla flung open the bedroom door to find Ila packing.
"Ila, what are you doing? Where are you going? I knew something was wrong."
Ila looked at her with disappointment. She took a deep breath a quietly said, "Well, I guess you might as well know. You'd find out sooner or later."
Calla removed a cigarette from her pocketbook, resting it between two fingers. Her bright red nails glittered against her tan hand. She lifted the cigarette to her lips and lit the end, sucking in slightly. When she pulled the cigarette away, Ila noticed that her nails and lipstick were perfectly matched.
"Don't smoke that in here. Go outside. You know I don't like the smell."
"Not until I get an answer. Are you leaving us?"
Ila pursed her lips and looked at Calla with cold, hard eyes. Ila was always so responsible, responsible for everyone. She just wanted this one moment for herself.
"Oh, Calla, don't be so damn dramatic. I'm not leaving. JT and I are getting married in Mississippi. We'll be back in a week’s time."
"But you're making a huge mistake."
"Just because your marriage was a mistake doesn't mean mine will be."
Calla's short, bleach-blond hair flickered around her face as she flung the clothes out of Ila's suitcase and onto the floor. Ila didn't try to stop her. Soon, skirts, dresses, and undergarments lay crumpled beneath their feet. Calla collapsed on top of them and began to cry. Tears trickled across her cheeks, smearing mascara down her face. She cried out, "You can't get married. You're all I have."
One night, Calla’s husband gave her a serious scare after he'd finished off a quart of whiskey. He began yelling, telling her how she couldn't keep a house – couldn't cook or clean. Their argument escalated and he threw her against their newly-papered kitchen walls. After he passed out, she called Ila to come and pick her up. That night, Ila had promised that she would always come, no matter what the circumstances. Calla wondered if she'd keep that promise once she had her own family, her own husband.
Ila sat down on the floor beside Calla. She held Calla's chin in one hand and used the other to wipe her cheeks.
"Look at you. You're a mess," she said tenderly. Ila paused for a moment and considered the situation. Calla needed her, but she needed JT.
"You know, Calla, I want to leave and never come back. I want to see new places, meet new people, start a life of my own. I want to leave this dry, desolate farm and see the big city. Just me and JT. The sad part is that I will come back. I will always come back."
One night, my mother showed up at Ila’s house with me and my sister. Mom was cussing under her breath and her eyes were a glassy red color. Ila asked, “What the heck is going on?”
“David has threatened me for the last time!” she exclaimed.
“What?” Ila replied with an astonished look. She could see that my mother’s marriage was going badly, but she couldn’t get her to talk about it. Mom was private and independent, which made it hard for Ila to tell what was going on.
Mom glanced over at me and my sister and whispered to Grandmother, “Keep your voice down, mother. The girls will hear. He said that if I left him, he’d kill me. He said he would get a gun and shoot me in the head.”
In that instant, many would have succumbed to fear, but not Ila. She put on her glasses, picked up the phone, and calmly dialed.
"Hello, David, this is Ila speaking,” her words were slow with a careful determination.
“Well, hello there. Have you heard from my…”
Ila cut him off, “Listen here, now. I am a God-fearing woman, but if you threaten my baby girl ever again, I will get my shotgun and, son, I will blow you into the next world.” With that, she clicked the phone back on the receiver. The next week she ordered my mother to get her things from the house and move in with her until she found a place of her own.
Ila never moved outside of Guntersville, but she and Beer spent many loving years together raising their two daughters, Aleeta and Angie, until one unfortunate day.
From the living room window, Ila watched Beer fall to the ground as he suffered a second major heart failure. She ran out to the cow pasture where he had been standing. The dry grass was crushed around the area where he had stood only moments ago, leaving a dark imprint in the field. She had told him not to work out there, not in this heat. Why hadn’t he listened?
After his funeral she went to see his doctor, searching for answers. He told her, “There was nothing you could have done. During his last visit the x-ray showed that his heart had swelled to three times the normal size. He knew he only had a few months left.” He’d lied to her, to the girls, for those past months, pretending everything was still the same. But Ila didn’t feel betrayed by the lie; she felt relieved. Their last days together were not marred by the looming despair of death. Still, it was hard to shake the guilt she felt at not being there for him in those final dark moments. Over time she accepted it, realizing he had committed an act of grace in sparing them the knowledge of his dark secret. When she got older, she was even able to laugh about it.
That man’s heart was just too damn big.
My grandmother was a tough farm girl, which made it hard for me to accept that she was getting old. It was particularly hard when she broke her femur and couldn’t walk for several months. At the time, she was living by herself in an old, two-level house. She had to walk down stairs that were six inches wide to get to her laundry. The family knew it was an accident waiting to happen. Luckily, two of my cousins were there with her when she fell. They called the ambulance right away, but she still had to be hospitalized for several weeks. When she was finally discharged, she stayed with my aunt and cousins. I knew I should go visit her, but I was scared to see her like that – so weak and vulnerable. I finally convinced my sister to go with me. We waited until midnight to make the drive – it was always easier at night. The drive from Virginia to Alabama took eleven hours, and it gave me time to think, to worry. Would my wild, energetic Ila Sue be replaced by a sad, weak old lady?
By the time I came to visit, she was able to hobble with a walker down the hall. Most of the day she sat in a lazy chair near the TV. I sat beside her and got up every now and then to get her water or a snack. She still couldn’t bend down to use the toilet, so the hospital gave her an uplifted one that she could use in her bedroom, but it had to be rinsed out after use. Once when it needed to be cleaned, my grandmother called me over and asked me to do it. She laughed and said, “I used to clean up your poop, now you’re gonna clean mine.”
Her friends called frequently, stopped by to check on her, and sent her several homemade pound cakes (her favorite). In fact, they sent so many pound cakes that she made me take two back home to Virginia. She asked me how I was doing in school, how my career was going, what my boyfriend was like. But I was taken aback when she asked, “When are you two getting married?” I quickly changed the subject to a movie I had recently seen – The Divinci Code.
Grandmother may be somewhat unconventional, but there is one point on which she would not budge. She was a devout Baptist, so devout that she refused to read or even watch The Divinci Code. I tried to explain that it was a work of fiction, but she stubbornly shut me down.
“Alyssa, Jesus is immortal – the son of God.” When she got like that, there was only one thing to do – shut up and nod.
One afternoon, I was sitting with her, wearing a light, flowing skirt, similar to her sundress, which fell past my knees. My long hair was wavy and uncombed. My aunt and cousins started laughing, “Doesn’t Alyssa look like one of those holiness girls?”
My grandmother didn’t hesitate, “Y’all stop pickin’ on her. It ain't nice to make fun of people.” She shot each of them a stern look until the laughter subsided.
During the visit, I learned that her broken femur wasn't the only bad luck she'd had. While she was in the hospital, someone had broken into her house.
"Well, what did they take? The TV? Jewelry? Money?"
"No, they mostly just took pillowcases full of food. They stole my costume jewelry and some other knick-knacks, but nothing worth much."
"How weird. Do you think they were crazy people?"
"Well, maybe not crazy, maybe just down and out. If they really needed it, then I'm glad they took it, poor dears."
While I was in town, my aunt, cousins, and I went to check on Grandmother's house. Upon inspection, we found two boxes of stolen goods sitting out in the backyard. The presence of these boxes creeped me out. My aunt said, “Maybe they left it out here planning to come back for it.” She called Grandmother's gardener, who had been by after the burglary, to see if he had noticed the boxes. He told her “No way,” there hadn’t been any boxes there when he came.
When we told grandmother, she said, “Well, I'll be. I bet they heard I was in the hospital and brought some of it back. Don't that beat all?” It was possible, considering that Guntersville was a small town and most people knew Ila. But I still doubted it.
My sister, my cousin Katie, and I stayed at the house to discourage anymore burglaries. We flipped the lights on and off, made noise, watched the TV on loud. When it came time for bed, we all decided it would be best to sleep together. The beds weren't big enough, so we made a pallet of blankets in the middle of the living room floor – just like Grandmother had done for us when we were kids. If a burglar had broken in, he would have had a good chuckle at our expense – three grown women sprawled on the floor amongst a pile of blankets when there were two perfectly good beds. Despite being huddled together, my doubts about human kindness kept me awake that night. I knew that, had she been there, Grandmother would have slept like a baby.
When we had to go back to Virginia a few days later, I was sad to say goodbye. I wanted more time with her – more time to figure out who she really was. In the end, I left knowing that my love for her as a Grandmother – first and foremost – would always obscure my understanding of her as a woman.
In some ways, she would always be unknowable.
