Occasionally, as a child, I would spend the night with Grammie Lee and Grandpa Pierce in their big, old, yellow farmhouse along the Delta riverbank in Stockton, California. I loved to wake up in the morning to the smell of a fresh farm breakfast cooking on the stove.

Photo by: Marcus Ramberg

I’d find Grammie with curlers in her hair, dancing a little soft-shoe jig in her robe and slippers, while Grandpa whipped up some butter and sorghum to spread over our homemade biscuits. Grammie would be singing and shuffling across her big kitchen floor to the sound of popping bacon, sizzling eggs, and some Christian revival music coming from her large Cathedral floor radio.

Photo by: Mark Pike

I would wait wordlessly in the doorway to the kitchen, shivering in my thin little nightgown and bare feet, until Grammie whirled around to find me standing there. When she did, she’d dance on over to me, and in a sing-song voice, she’d say, “Well, good morning, my Angel! You’re just a sight too sweet to behold there, a shiverin’ and a smilin’ at your ol’ Grammie.”

Then, she’d scoop me up in her long, warm arms, and dance me over to the kitchen chair, chanting, “Looks like the frost is on the pumpkin early this mornin,’ ain’t it honey?”

Photo by: “Natasha”

Next, she’d wrap me up in one of her handmade quilts that lay warm and toasty across the back of the kitchen chair closest to the black-iron cook stove. The quilt was soft and warm and smelled of wood-smoke, coffee, sorghum, ham, and just a hint of cedar. Grammie’s handmade quilts slept in her cedar chest during the warmer months. As I warmed up under the soft, padded folds of cotton, my belly would growl, and my mouth would water for some of Grammie’s warm, homemade biscuits.

While thoroughly enjoying the fresh farm fixings, Grammie would entertain us with lyrical stories about some of her own favorite childhood memories with her “Granmaw Cornelison,” on her Mama’s side. She would recall memories of when she and her siblings visited their Grandmother out on her farm in Texas.

“I remember my Granmaw Cornelison settin’ out there in the breezeway, churnin’ fresh butter with a dasher in a big crock churn,” Grammie gestured. “She’d be a pushin’ and a pumpin’ and a singin’ to us kids way into the hours until that butter finally came.”

I could just imagine seeing my Grammie Lee as a child, looking up at her ‘Granmaw’ singing gay little songs, just like we did with her. Grammie’s mouth must have been watering, like mine, just waiting for a taste of her Grandmother’s freshly churned butter on a plump, steamy biscuit.

Grammie would tell me how my Great-Great-Grandma Cornelison also liked to tell her grandkids stories about her own childhood growing up in Alabama. “She used to tell us yarns while dippin’ snuff, which she carried down there in her skirt pocket!” she hooted, tapping the pocket of her own house coat.

“What’s snuff?” I interrupted, with a mouthful of soft, dough, which made Grandpa Pierce chortle into his napkin. Grammie smiled and winked at Grandpa, and continued her animated story, holding my curiosity at bay.

“I remember Granmaw chewin’ on a little Hackberry stick she called her ‘toothbrush,’” she said. “She would use it to get the snuff from out of the can in her pocket, and then she’d stuff it way back in her jaw! And, you know,” Grammie recalled, looking at Grandpa rather disgusted, “I never once saw her spit!” My curiosity was now captive. I leaned over to Grandpa and whispered again, “What’s snuff?” Grandpa tried hard to contain his muffled laughter.

Photo by: Victoria Jones

Grammie finally gave in and hollered, “It’s chewin’ tobacco, and it ain’t for kids!” she expounded. “I found that out the hard way! One time when I was just knee-high, I asked Granmaw Cornelison if I could taste her snuff. Granmaw looked at me wide-eyed, and then slowly grinned like a Cheshire Cat, and gave me some! Oh, my head went round and round!” she flouted. “And Granmaw just sat there and laughed at me! I was only 7 years old! Sure taught me a lesson!” she proclaimed. “It wasn’t any better than trying to smoke grape vines for cigarettes!” she snarled, casting another disgusted look at Grandpa Pierce. By the sound of it, this was something I imagine Grammie or Grandpa must have tried once or twice in their lifetimes.

“Granmaw always had that old stick in her mouth while she’d sing us funny little songs,” Grammie recalled with a happy look.

“Old Farmer Brown
was a good ol’ man.
Her never did any harm.
He used to wear
LaRue’s little green coat
all buttoned down behind.”

Grammie Lee’s real name was LaRue. She told us how her Grandma Cornelison liked to make jokes about her grandkids in her songs. Grammie’s southern accent and theatrical, singsong voice made all her stories and songs sound funny.

Photo by: Sonny and Sandy

My all-time favorite memory of Grammie is when she would bounce me as a small child in her arms and swing me around as we danced to an old 78 speed record that played, “Bubblin’ In My Soul.”

She told me the record had belonged to her father, my Great-Grandpa Brashear. “He was a Primitive Baptist Preacher,” Grammie frequently reminded me, “who has gone to be with the Lord.” Grammie Lee loved her daddy very much. Whenever she played that old record, it always reminded her of him and made her feel real good. It made me feel good too. Grammie an that seasoned revival song taught me I was “the granddaughter of a Godly man, one of God’s heavenly fold, and Grammie Lee’s ‘Angel’.”

Photo by: “Kristy”

Grammie Lee took her last breath on February 6th, 2004. Her passing is still a fresh with me at this writing. She lived to be 86 years old, but she will live on in my memory until the end of my days. I can still hear Grammie laughing and singing from “way up yonder,” as she used to say when she described ‘heaven.’ She was just my all-time favorite person, and I miss her dearly.

And so, it was my Mama, my Daddy, and Grammie Lee who were my earliest and primary musical influences. I learned from them at an early age that life was full of rhythm. Where there was music, dancing, storytelling, or song, there was always joy and love, spirit and light, communion and belonging, and life felt simply divine.

Photo by: Irene Suchocki

Posted by LaRonda on Friday, December 29th, 2006 at 1:07 pm.