Southern Porches

I recently lost my last connection with my past. The only person who could answer questions and fill in the gaps about my family passed away. Her physical health had deteriorated in the past few years, but Aunt Agnes never failed to send birthday and anniversary cards to everyone she loved. She would sit down with her calendar and address book at the start of each month and get them all ready. They would be lined up on a shelf over her desk in the kitchen in the order they were to be mailed. She stayed connected with her family and friends in such a special way.

As a young child I always saw Aunt Agnes either washing clothes on the back porch or cooking for her family. She took great pride in keeping a clean house and taking good care of her children. She wanted to improve her vocabulary and with the help of Readers Digest made a point of using new words frequently. This played a big part in my love of words and their power.

As a young married woman, I would drop in to have a cup of coffee. She would brew Maxwell House and it was strong and wonderful. We would sit at the kitchen table, sip our coffee, nibble on something sweet, and discuss our family and cooking. Our conversations usually drifted back in time and she would talk about growing up with her brothers and sisters . I was always hungry for stories about that people she and I both loved. Aunt Agnes was known for her pound cakes and banana bread. She always had several in the freezer and there was usually one for me to take home. As the years passed, she switched to freeze dried Tasters Choice, which was pretty dreadful, but the love and conversation was what I came to drink in and I always went away satisfied with that.

A few months ago I had my last good conservation with my aunt. She was in the hospital and preparing for her move to a nursing home. She had dictated to her daughter, Mary, things that she wanted taken care of for her move. She had packed a box for each of her children with things she wanted them to have. A few years ago she had given me several pictures that she knew I would love to have. Most were of my Mother when she was a small girl. She remembered another one that she wanted me to have. It is of my Grandfather sitting in his rocker on the front porch. He is wearing a sport coat and the drying kudzu is still clinging to the end of the porch. You can see the daybed, where I used to read and play with my paper dolls, in the background. I am on the floor, peeking out from behind his legs. It is a wonderful picture that I had never seen before. My cousin, Mary, had enlarged and framed it for me and it is where I can see it every day. I will treasure it forever.

I was working on a story that my Grandmother had told me, about something that had happened when her children were young. The essence of the tale was clear in my mind, but I couldn’t remember who the culprit was. Aunt Agnes smiled as I recounted the story and laughed as she told me she was the one who had done the dirty deed.

“I did it.” she said. “I was a mean child.”

I can’t imagine my Aunt Agnes ever being mean. She must have grown out of that early on. She raised six children and one grandchild, mostly by herself. They were all in attendance with their children and grandchildren when she was laid to rest. My cousin Dan read a poem he had written about her. It was lovely. She would have been so proud of Robbie, her grandson, who was a special light in her life, as he gave her eulogy. He spoke of her tenderness and her strength and included memories that were only his. Now they are a part of mine. Hers was a life well lived and filled with love and family. She will always be a part of me, and I will forever be blessed with the time I spent with her.