Mettie Adelia Bullard passed away just a few days before my 33rd birthday at the ripe old age of 101. She left behind four children, a passel of grandchildren, quite a few great grandchildren, and at the time of her passing, she had one or two double-greats.
She never drove a car and she never took no lip from NOBODY, ‘cept maybe my daddy. She always called me “Sweetmeat,” and I LIVED for it. Didn’t really know what it meant, didn’t honestly care. I was the ONLY person she called by that name and that was enough. The entire community knew her as “Aunt Mettie,” but *I* got to call her Granny. She always had peppermints, and her black patent leather purse always had FOLDIN’ money in it for me, regardless of holiday, birthday or special occasion. And that denomination was no JOKE, friends.
She washed her hair in that old lady blue shampoo—y’know, the kind in the gray bottle with the pink top. She told me it was necessary to keep her locks snowy white. She didn’t have a shower in the house, only a tub, so the sink on her back porch was her beauty shop. Aunt Betsy would come by to wash and set it for church on Sunday morning and those snowy curls would be pristine for 10 a.m. service at Austin Creek Missionary Baptist Church. I used to love to sit there and watch the two of them get her House-of-the-Lord-ready. Granny would hold the velcro rollers in a woven wicker basket, ready for handoff to Aunt Betsy. She wore a tea towel around her shoulders, occasionally grousing because the comb was digging into her scalp or the loops too tightly wound.
She taught me the proper use—and volume—for a few words that weren’t allowed in Sunday School. When I called her name from the back of the house, she’d answer with a loud hoot, more owl than octogenarian. And OOoooOOOOOHHHHH, her ‘nanner puddin’! Billows of meringue, golden, pear-shaped droplets of sugar nestled in the crests and troughs of that fluffy egg white ocean, floating above the currents of ‘Nilla Wafer and banana coursing below. Corn was called “roastin’ ears” and the area between her eyebrows and hairline was a “fard.” And there wasn’t a croup or crud that couldn’t be cured with a generous drop o’ Jack. Daniels, that is.
But the thing I remember best and most about sweet Granny Bullard were the kisses she’d give. She’d grab my chubby little jaw between two fingertips, each cathedral-arch-perfect and emery-boarded within an inch of their lives, the skin of them draped crepe, as Granny Bullard was positively ancient before I was even born. She’d hold me while she pressed her lips to my fat little cheek. She’d inhale, get my smell in her nostrils before the first big loud kiss, then give me a succession of smaller but just as raucous smacks on the side of the face. I’d squeal and tilt my head to the side, making my two little hands into one slightly larger fist beneath my chins to try to protect my nearly non-existent neck while she’d belly laugh, a rolling chuckle that shook her whole body, punctuated with another hoot as she dabbed at her eyes with the dainty embroidered handkerchief she always magically produced from…somewhere.
Granny’s decline lasted longer than anybody should have to endure, but I got to sing just for her before she left this ol’ world. It wasn’t anything special or fancy—just a few hymns by the hospital bed in her living room. Closer to the end, she suffered a lot; it was rare to be close to her without hearing her whimper or watch her wiggle, just trying to find some ease. But while I sang for her, she was as quiet and still as the mice that might play at acting like congregation through the week at The Creek.
And that was enough. We put her in the ground not long after. That year for my birthday, I got to help carry her casket to her graveside, received the gift of knowing that she was finally at peace and free of pain. She’d filled a century with laughter and love and family and friends. She left a million memories and close to as many mourners.
Tell your people you love ‘em. Show ‘em when you can, as best you can. Life—it’s short but WIDE. Love y’all.