My godly grandparents had a great influence upon my life.  I loved to hear Granddaddy pray.  On bended knees his prayers came straight from his heart.  I don’t remember the words but I do remember the humility.

I can almost taste Granny’s pickled peaches and fried chicken.  I picked peaches

for her cobblers because “No one can cook peach cobblers like Sister Farrar,” the visiting revival preacher said.

 Granny made pallets for me under the big tent revival.  My nurtured soul drifted

off to sleep amidst those grand old church hymns.  Granny’s early morning rendition

of those same songs, the smell of bacon frying and the soft goose feather bed made me think heaven had to be at Granny’s house.

            Many times the neighboring kids met at Granny’s.  Being the only female among them all, I tried to be “The Brats’ Boss,” but I had a bigger cousin who packed a harder punch.

            “I’ll be the preacher this time, my robust cousin shouted.  “No!” I persisted.

“It’s my time.  Just cross this line.”

            “Okay.”

            “I picked myself up, saying, “Then I’m going to be song leader.”

            “Who cares?” the gang retorted.

            “We’re singing, “When we all get to heaven what a surprise that will be.”  So I sang at the top of my voice while my chorus half-heartedly chimed in.

            It all stopped when we heard the big, black, puffing train engine coming.  We hurried to wave at the engineer.  We counted the cars and slugged it out if we disagreed.

            Hot and thirsty, we marched to the filling station and drank Strawberry Soda for only a dime, a treat we tried to make last a long time.

            I could never understand then why Granny went around saying, “Mercy!  Mercy!”

Now I know.

            Every once in a while we had “I Double Dare You” day.  The rules said it had to be bigger than the last time we played it.  I dared them to jump off the barn like “Superman.”   They sneaked some of Granny’s nice clean big towels, wrapped them around their necks and jumped.  Amidst their groaning, they got in my face.  “Okay kiddo, now it’s your turn.”  They huddled together,  “No that’s too easy.  Think of something harder.”  Finally they approached me with a “gotcha” look.

            “We double dare you to climb up the windmill and walk around the fan on that little porch up ‘ere.”

            “Any sissy can do that.  Is that the hardest thing you can think of?”  I climbed up that rotten old wooden ladder like “Jack in the Beanstalk,” but inside I shook with fear.  Once at the top, I paraded around the fan and took a bow.  I sat down a while, acting like the windmill had become my throne and my cousins were my peasant subjects.  The truth of the matter is I was too scared to come down.  A neighbor saw me and ran to tell Granny.  The boys ran and hid.  Somehow I managed to come down as Granny said, “Mercy!  Mercy!”

            My grandparent’s house still stands in that sleepy little town.  We stopped and looked at it recently.  I wanted to go inside and become a child again, feeling the same childhood excitement.  Maybe Granny’s calico apron, or even the aroma of gingerbread still remained, I thought.  I could almost see it in the photo of my mind.

A house with love in it…that’s what it had been for me…a precious memory that time can never erase.

            “Don’t go yet,” I pleaded with my husband.  “Let me look just a little bit longer.”

            My grandparents gave me love, faith and courage.  I learned what heaven must be like.  Going back to my childhood summers reminds me today what is really important in life.  Being content with what you have with those you love is the only way to be happy.

            I honor my grandparents on this Grandparent’s Day.  They left me memories of love that last forever!