By Nicole Vaccarella
Growing up, I was blessed with a host of strong women on my mother’s side of the family. I had three grandmothers, two great-grandmothers, two great aunts, as well as my mom and her sister. They each had their own grandma name and each taught me special lessons that have stayed with me to this day. They were a wonderful blend of what I consider the quintessential southern woman—modern and old fashioned, tough and beautiful, wise and crazy. Today, I can walk through my house and garden and see my inheritance from each of them, both the tangible and the intangible.
My Great-Grandma Bill (yes, her name was Bill!) worked as head teller in a bank way before women of her class worked outside the home. She never hesitated to tell anyone exactly what she thought. In fact, the preacher at her funeral said that with her, you never had to guess where you stood. I will never forget the time she told my cousin’s new fiancé that she could not stand all the white lace hose we were wearing (it was the 80’s) that it made us all look like nurses. On the other hand, she was always ready with my favorite fudge, volunteered at the Human Society every week, and canned the best strawberry preserves I’ve ever had. My Granny Doris (also a great grandmother) was a single mom who supported her daughters as a seamstress through The Depression and beyond. She had the most wonderful sense of style, and beautiful long red nails until the day she died.
My “Little Grandma,” Helen Beth Kent, told the best stories, set the most beautiful tables, and was the life of the party (which was usually at her house or pool). I have a wonderful collection of pink Depression glass, pink china, and pink Fostoria that she passed on to me. When we moved her from her home to assisted living, my mom and I laughed and laughed when we found pink and white dishes hot glued to the wall of her guest bedroom as décor. When I was in college, I borrowed a pair of red leather pants from her for some kind of theme party. No lie!
My Grandma Wanda is the most gracious and most stubborn woman I have ever met. She taught me to always stand outside and wave to your departing guests, and to get what you need through quiet determination. I never saw her tell my grandpa to put down his newspaper and visit with us, but somehow she got him to do it.
My mother, Barbie Graham, gave me so much really good advice, but my personal favorite was her response to my feeling down or sick. “Put your lipstick on and go to school (or work, or the party, etc.). You’ll feel better.”
One thing all these women had in common—beautiful houses and wonderful gardens.
I recently read about a sermon series my former minister, Siegfried Johnson, is doing for Epiphany called “Living in the Thin Places.” He explained that the Celtic Christians of the 5th Century believed in certain sacred spots such as a tree or cave where the veil between our reality and a deeper reality is somehow more porous. One writer described Thin Places as a “place where the distance between heaven and earth collapses,” and as I pondered this idea, I began to think about why, as a really busy working mom, I still like to do things like garden, make 70 bags of homemade muffin mix for Christmas gifts, and glue eight gross of Swarovski crystals on my daughter’s dance outfit by hand. I mean, couldn’t I just give up my Fridays off and come out ahead by making enough money to pay someone else to weed my flower beds?
It is because for me, these things create the Thin Places between my grandmothers, who have departed this world (except for Grandma Wanda who is still kicking around northwest Arkansas), and me. When I look at my hydrangeas in full bloom, I can hear Little Grandma telling me how to cut them and pound the ends to make them stay fresh. When I am gluing sequins and feathers on dance outfits, I can hear my Granny Doris and mother chortling in glee behind me over my complete failure as a seamstress coming back to haunt me. As I am making Christmas muffin mix for everyone I know, I am reminded of Little Grandma, Helen Beth Kent Scott, and her lifelong friend Nanny Trammell, who gave us the muffin mix every Christmas. To me, it is more than just mix; it is a symbol of a friendship that lasted from pregnancy to the nursing home. As I drive up my driveway when my last memory of summer has been buried by an avalanche of snow and ice, I see the first jonquils poking their heads up in the field, making me wonder about the farmer’s wife I imagine planted them 50 years ago.
As I talked to my daughters about this article and my ideas for it, I took them through every room of the house, and even in the garden, to show them all the things that belonged to those wonderful strong women. The end tables in this room, the painting in that room, the Fiesta ware on the table every night, the pink china for Easter, and the autumn clematis that Wanda warned me would grow like a weed but would be beautiful when everything else was on its last legs at the end of summer. I see my Grandma Bill in Samantha as she works jigsaw puzzles obsessively and gets out her bird book and binoculars. I see Little Grandma’s sense of humor and zaniness in Alea. Most of all I see the two girliest girls you could find with steel inside of them that will stand the test of time, Southern women at their finest. My hope is that our entire house and garden is a place where heaven and earth collapse in a way that I can pass on the life lessons of the marvelous women in my life, knowing they are still right beside me all the time, to my own smart, beautiful, and unique daughters. M! April/May 2014
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