Gone but Never Forgotten

Gone but Never Forgotten

Of all the life - lessons my Great-grandmother, Sissy, passed on to me, the one that I have valued the most is the importance of capturing life's special moments on paper. Growing up three hours away from my Great-grandmother, it was tough to maintain a close relationship, but she closed the gap with a pen, her signature rose bordered stationery, an envelop with her pre-printed address sticker, and a stamp. Over the years, Sissy must have written hundreds of letters to me, each one is a treasure that I still hold in my heart.

Throughout my childhood, I would typically only see Sissy three to four times a year, visiting her on the regular holidays like Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter and birthdays whenever possible. The road trips to Nanny's house with my dad, brother and sister were long and miserable. Three hours of Dad's corny jokes between his rock-n-roll jam sessions, paired with the annoyances of younger siblings, were enough to drive me crazy half way through the trip. The best part of the trip was when we crossed over the railroad tracks and drove through Basil's town square because that meant that we were only 45 minutes from Sissy's house. When we made the left onto Davella Drive, no matter how exhausted I was, the eagerness to see Sissy always refreshed me.

606 Davella Drive was a brown, brick house with gardens flourishing with flowers of every kind and every color, framed with leaning wooden banisters and a bulb that shone like a "beacon guiding four grumpy, road weary travelers to rest and comfort," like Sissy would always greet us. In all of its simplicity, I can't imagine another house on earth holding the same appeal for me as that one. Before Dad had a chance to put the car in park, Sissy would appear in the entry way holding the wooden door open with a slippered foot, wearing her signature blue silk robe, her arms held wide in anticipation of the hugs and love she was about to receive.

Every visit started exactly the same way. Bags were dropped just inside the door and then we raced to the kitchen. Sissy always had dinner cooking on the stove. Smells of home-made fried okra, roast, rice and gravy would fill my nose. Oddly enough, I don't remember ever spending much time with Sissy in any other room during our visits. She never wanted to waste time sitting around the "tube". Although I never felt like I missed a beat in her life because she kept me up to speed with her letters, she was always eager to sit and "catch up" as soon as we arrived. If the heart of Sissy's house was the kitchen, then the heart of the kitchen was the table.

The kitchen table was the gathering place for conversations with the woman I loved so dearly. Pops had made this table for Sissy as a wedding gift. This is where she sat to write. This was where she kept me close. I have countless memories of sitting next to her at the table, running my fingers over the years of indentions left by her pen in the soft wood.

Sissy and I would also call each other often. I loved to hear her voice, but technology, even as simple as a telephone, would frustrate her. Her letters were where she found herself most comfortable. It was a bright