Writer on a Horse

December 04 was my Granny’s birthday… she died in 1969 from lung cancer. I lived next door to my Granny for all of my life and thought she was the most wonderful person in the world… she treated everyone so special … like they were need, wanted and loved.

For a creative writing workshop we had to write about something in our childhood that we can still see, feel, taste, and smell in our mind. This was what I wrote about my Granny’s house.

Pots bubbled on the stove and a medley of smells assaulted your nose when you enter the back door. Dirty dishes are stacked in the deep cast iron sink and the floor needs to be swept. A huge butcher knife with a thin blade from the many times it has been sharpened lies on the white painted table. A rat trap baited with cheese is chained to the flour cabinet and a bowl of bread is rising on the small table under the double windows. You’re greeted by a sincere smile and the flash of arms before you’re crushed against the soft warmth of a chest. The reassurance of a steady heart beat and the musky smells of sweat and earth lets you know you’re loved.

At Christmas her house always smelled like pine trees mingled with whatever yummy goody she had in the oven. The front door stayed open even when it was cold because people kept arriving. Her big oak table held the load of the family meal... none of this buffet style... Granddaddy got the bowls first and he would pass it to his right, with Granny getting the bowl last. No one took a bite of food or touched a bowl before Granddaddy said grace. That always puzzled me... Granddaddy didn't go to church and he was a gambling man till the day he died... like the moonshine too. Granny was a church goer and a godly light with her life.... why did Granddaddy say grace??? maybe Granny wanted him to stay on speaking terms with God.