"Aw shit." Or maybe I should start this out spelling it how only she knew how to say one of her favourite phrases so you understand a little better. Aawwwwh shhhiiiyuht.
That's more like it. If this is going to be a mema post, it's going to be as accurate as I can portray her. This is five in the morning writing so bear with me through the raw, unedited post that this is. The scramble is real and I'm not sure there really is a starting or ending point, merely ramblings and stories from my point of view of someone that really left a footprint in each person that knew her.
She was a traditional southern woman if there ever was one that I came across. By day, a good follower of her faith, fed everyone that stepped in her house, and the charm and manners to make you feel right at home in her conversations. By night, her family - related and friend alike- knew her to be a sarcastic delight and would tell you to your face what was what. That was always Mema for as long as any of us ever knew.
"Well how are you honey?" She would always greet me the same way whenever I visited her, big smile and open arms ready for a squeeze. While living in a little town of Pascagoula, Mississippi and the Gulf as her back yard, she usually finished greetings with a menu that was already cookin
or if it was early enough, she'd ask you for your input on what she should fix you. She loved feeding people.
At her funeral, the family burst into laughter and smiles when her old mailman showed up. I mean. We were laughing because we'd all been told by her that he'd passed years ago. Turns out he just stopped being a mailman. Remembering him from when we were kids, we all hugged him the same, reminiscing on his shenanigans he would pull with our mema. He was a friend of the family and one I remember that we always fed every time he came by to deliver mail.
"Hey, Harolyn!" He would always yell at her from halfway across the lawn as he walked up; her already opening the screen door to retrieve her mail and send out some more with him.
"Hey, honey! What you know good?"
Always inviting him in for a bite, and if he had to run, Mema always had cookies or a drink ready for him on his trip to more deliveries.
When I moved back to Mississippi the first time four years ago, I lived with Mema for a while before tackling big bad Biloxi on my own. There are a lot of things I learned about my grandma that I never questioned when I was younger. The things that you only think to question friends growing up or significants you start dating. I wanted to know what it was like growing up for her. I wanted to know about the grandfather I never met. I wanted to know what kind of shenanigans she got into.
Of course there are only so many things that a mema will tell her grandchildren but what I learned about her was fascinating. She loved working in the court system. She loved music, typing, and reading.
Thanksgiving of that first year was the first time I learned how to really make Mema's chicken and oyster gumbo. That was what our tradition was for holidays - a family favourite. That Christmas I helped a little more. She noted she hadn't really made gumbo much since we'd moved to Montana back in 2000. It was mostly herself she cooked for and she barely knew how to cook for one. She only knew how to prepare for armies.
So I started bringing her the masses. At first I had one or two of my friends over to meet her. A couple times I brought a whole slough of my air force friends and she made them a damn bbq banquet. They, like everyone else, came to know her as just Mema.
Kind, hospitable, and antiquated yet sneaky, full of personality, and a downright rascal! Even the gals from her bank who had been seeing her for years showed up for her final remembrance.
When she would visit us in Montana, she used to jest and tell me that if she were my age she'd give me a run for my money in stealing my boyfriend at that time. She'd laugh so hard at our mortified expressions. You never really knew what was going to come out of her mouth, only that it would be charming and no matter what she said, it would be in good spirit.
Having such a grandma full of personality made it easy for all of her grandkids to be themselves. We were cut from the same cloth, but mind that we were all made from very different scissors.
At the end of the day of her funeral, as we were all gathered- my mum and her four kids and each one having their guy or gal with them- my older brother made a toast and I think he said it best: She is in all of us, in some form or fashion.
Whether it was her charm, her stubbornness, her secretive nature, or her creative mind, we all are walking, living embodiments of her. For sure, we are all story tellers. You can't meet a soul in the small town in Montana that we grew up in that didn't know at least one if not two of us.
Everyone has a Mema Story that knew her just like everyone that knows each of her descendants has one of our stories. Her courage and strength flow through us all, especially when we feel like we can't hold on to our sanity any longer.
Mema stories include:
Getting mad at the lawn mower, kicking it, and chopping off her own toe. (She totally finished the lawn after that, or so our legend goes.)
Driving the wrong way down a one way and getting mad at the other drivers when she was 80. (I never let her drive me again after that.)
Having a creepy way of whispering and smiling at you when there was no reason to whisper. (Gonna pick up on this one in a minute.)
Pretty much any of her catchphrases. She had a ton that were quotable. (Shiiit, You fiend!, I beg your pardon.)
Her damn cooking.
Her obsession with smoking. All up until her final days. It was really hilarious the way she would rave if she couldn't get a cigarette fast enough.
There are hundreds more I'm missing but That would be a ton of reading.
One of my favourite stories of mema was at our cousin's house. My older brother's gal and I were sitting with mema in their dining room/kitchen when mema started spouting her plans of dinner. Not really spouting more than whispering loudly in our general direction. We both leaned in with straight faces to hear her speak in short sentences.
"You have to put the peppers. In the oven. On 400 degrees. For Two hours."
We burst into laughter. Mema did too. She was super random and such a creeper. It added on to her hilarity and she had no idea.
I'm not sure where else this could possibly go. I hadn't written in a while and decided this was a good of time as ever. Something needed to be said about out Famous Mema. (Infamous, as she would always call herself.)
If you have a Mema story yourself, or know one that you've heard over the years, you can share it in the comments. I know there was only a small surface scratched of her but even words wouldn't be able to fully tell her story and impact on all of us.
That's more like it. If this is going to be a mema post, it's going to be as accurate as I can portray her. This is five in the morning writing so bear with me through the raw, unedited post that this is. The scramble is real and I'm not sure there really is a starting or ending point, merely ramblings and stories from my point of view of someone that really left a footprint in each person that knew her.
She was a traditional southern woman if there ever was one that I came across. By day, a good follower of her faith, fed everyone that stepped in her house, and the charm and manners to make you feel right at home in her conversations. By night, her family - related and friend alike- knew her to be a sarcastic delight and would tell you to your face what was what. That was always Mema for as long as any of us ever knew.
"Well how are you honey?" She would always greet me the same way whenever I visited her, big smile and open arms ready for a squeeze. While living in a little town of Pascagoula, Mississippi and the Gulf as her back yard, she usually finished greetings with a menu that was already cookin
or if it was early enough, she'd ask you for your input on what she should fix you. She loved feeding people.
At her funeral, the family burst into laughter and smiles when her old mailman showed up. I mean. We were laughing because we'd all been told by her that he'd passed years ago. Turns out he just stopped being a mailman. Remembering him from when we were kids, we all hugged him the same, reminiscing on his shenanigans he would pull with our mema. He was a friend of the family and one I remember that we always fed every time he came by to deliver mail.
"Hey, Harolyn!" He would always yell at her from halfway across the lawn as he walked up; her already opening the screen door to retrieve her mail and send out some more with him.
"Hey, honey! What you know good?"
Always inviting him in for a bite, and if he had to run, Mema always had cookies or a drink ready for him on his trip to more deliveries.
When I moved back to Mississippi the first time four years ago, I lived with Mema for a while before tackling big bad Biloxi on my own. There are a lot of things I learned about my grandma that I never questioned when I was younger. The things that you only think to question friends growing up or significants you start dating. I wanted to know what it was like growing up for her. I wanted to know about the grandfather I never met. I wanted to know what kind of shenanigans she got into.
Of course there are only so many things that a mema will tell her grandchildren but what I learned about her was fascinating. She loved working in the court system. She loved music, typing, and reading.
Thanksgiving of that first year was the first time I learned how to really make Mema's chicken and oyster gumbo. That was what our tradition was for holidays - a family favourite. That Christmas I helped a little more. She noted she hadn't really made gumbo much since we'd moved to Montana back in 2000. It was mostly herself she cooked for and she barely knew how to cook for one. She only knew how to prepare for armies.
So I started bringing her the masses. At first I had one or two of my friends over to meet her. A couple times I brought a whole slough of my air force friends and she made them a damn bbq banquet. They, like everyone else, came to know her as just Mema.
Kind, hospitable, and antiquated yet sneaky, full of personality, and a downright rascal! Even the gals from her bank who had been seeing her for years showed up for her final remembrance.
When she would visit us in Montana, she used to jest and tell me that if she were my age she'd give me a run for my money in stealing my boyfriend at that time. She'd laugh so hard at our mortified expressions. You never really knew what was going to come out of her mouth, only that it would be charming and no matter what she said, it would be in good spirit.
Having such a grandma full of personality made it easy for all of her grandkids to be themselves. We were cut from the same cloth, but mind that we were all made from very different scissors.
At the end of the day of her funeral, as we were all gathered- my mum and her four kids and each one having their guy or gal with them- my older brother made a toast and I think he said it best: She is in all of us, in some form or fashion.
Whether it was her charm, her stubbornness, her secretive nature, or her creative mind, we all are walking, living embodiments of her. For sure, we are all story tellers. You can't meet a soul in the small town in Montana that we grew up in that didn't know at least one if not two of us.
Everyone has a Mema Story that knew her just like everyone that knows each of her descendants has one of our stories. Her courage and strength flow through us all, especially when we feel like we can't hold on to our sanity any longer.
Mema stories include:
Getting mad at the lawn mower, kicking it, and chopping off her own toe. (She totally finished the lawn after that, or so our legend goes.)
Driving the wrong way down a one way and getting mad at the other drivers when she was 80. (I never let her drive me again after that.)
Having a creepy way of whispering and smiling at you when there was no reason to whisper. (Gonna pick up on this one in a minute.)
Pretty much any of her catchphrases. She had a ton that were quotable. (Shiiit, You fiend!, I beg your pardon.)
Her damn cooking.
Her obsession with smoking. All up until her final days. It was really hilarious the way she would rave if she couldn't get a cigarette fast enough.
There are hundreds more I'm missing but That would be a ton of reading.
One of my favourite stories of mema was at our cousin's house. My older brother's gal and I were sitting with mema in their dining room/kitchen when mema started spouting her plans of dinner. Not really spouting more than whispering loudly in our general direction. We both leaned in with straight faces to hear her speak in short sentences.
"You have to put the peppers. In the oven. On 400 degrees. For Two hours."
We burst into laughter. Mema did too. She was super random and such a creeper. It added on to her hilarity and she had no idea.
I'm not sure where else this could possibly go. I hadn't written in a while and decided this was a good of time as ever. Something needed to be said about out Famous Mema. (Infamous, as she would always call herself.)
If you have a Mema story yourself, or know one that you've heard over the years, you can share it in the comments. I know there was only a small surface scratched of her but even words wouldn't be able to fully tell her story and impact on all of us.
