A Grandmother's Gift

Dear Boo and Bubble,

One of the things that I enjoyed as a child – and miss in my relationship with you – was close proximity to one of my grandmothers. When I first knew her, your great, great grandmother Mattie (whom I called Nonnie) lived with her sister Ressie in a cute little house on North Main Street in Greenville. I remember all sorts of times there - spending nights when Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary would go to parties; baking cakes and getting flour all over myself and half the kitchen; sitting on her lap in her old wingback chair while she read to me.

My very favorite memory, though, is how I used to ask her to time me while I raced around her house.

“Ready, set, GO!” She would say, standing on the back stoop while I was down below in the yard.

I'd take off running as hard as I could and she started counting loud enough for me to her ----- “Onnnnnnn.......”

As I turned the last corner coming back to the start, I'd hear her ------ “nnnnnnnnne....”

I honestly thought I could fly and that I had successfully navigated the perimeter of her house in one second.

At the time, she was the local administrator for Congressman Robert T. Ashmore. His Greenville office was located on the second floor of the old main post office building downtown. On Wednesdays, the one day that Mamaw Mary had the family car to run errands, she would drop me off there and I would spend several hours with Nonnie.

It's been over 60 years – I was probably 3 or 4 years old, certainly before I started school – but I can still recall the atmosphere of the post office with its polished granite floor and the air naturally cooled by the lofty ceilings above the lobby. In the corner, right by the steps leading up to Nonnie's office, there was a small magazine and snack shop operated by a blind man. Nonnie would give me a dime and let me select whatever I wanted (usually a bag of peanuts and a bottle of Coca-Cola) and let me negotiate my purchase with him. I thought I was all grown up.

Her office was pretty typical for the era. The walls were lined with filing cabinets, one of which held supplies such as pencils, pens, legal pads, stationery, envelopes...... and carbon paper. That's how copies were made. Nonnie would put a piece of carbon paper between the official stationery and a regular white sheet of paper. The carbon transferred an exact image of what she was typing onto the paper.

There was a table beside Nonnie's desk and every Wednesday, she would set me up with my own set of supplies – a stack of paper, pencils (including a red pencil which she used to underscore items that the Congressman should note in his correspondence) and a rubber eraser. I spent the time doodling on the paper and pretending to be Nonnie, even mimicking how she answered the phone.

On a particular Wednesday when I arrived, there was a typewriter sitting at my space. Nonnie had requisitioned a newer model for her use and she relegated the old one to my station. I was thrilled as I had always marveled at how her fingers whizzed along the keys as she transcribed notes from her shorthand tablet without even looking up at the typewriter.

She assisted me in loading a sheet of paper behind the carriage, rolling it to the front and straightening it.

“Now, Beth, you type letters until you hear a 'ding,' and then you push the carriage lever like this to move the paper up for another line,” she instructed. “Understand?”

“Yes, Nonnie. I know how to do it. I watch you all the time.”

She went back to her desk and continued to work. I proceeded to pound furiously on the keys until I heard the 'ding,' at which point I dramatically thrust the lever, making the paper slide up the carriage. I typed and typed and typed until the paper lay limp on the carriage, the bottom almost about to fall out. I marveled at the letters, line after line, covering the entire page.

“Nonnie?”

“Yes.”

“What does this say?”

“Well, let me see.”

Nonnie took the paper from my hands and proceeded to recite the most fantastic story I had ever heard from my childish hieroglyphics. I thought I was an amazing author.

Yes, my grandmother made me believe that I could fly......that I was all grown up.....that I was an amazing author.....in essence that I could do anything. These are all gifts I hope to give to the two of you along the way. It's what grandmothers are supposed to do. I'm sure of that.