Day 49 - Paternal Roots Part I

Hazel Marie Lee Mayo.  My grandmother.  Someone who loved me unconditionally.  Someone whose face lit up when I walked through the door.  Someone who saved a piece of chocolate pie for me in a drawer because she knew it was my favorite and didn't want everyone to eat it before I got there.  Someone who snuck me an extra coke (in the bottle) when no one was looking.  Someone who made me a special quilt, different from all the others because I shared her middle name.  I was special to her.

When I think about my grandmother I think about me.  How wonderful I felt to be around her.  How safe I felt.  How loved I felt.  Isn't that the way a grandmother should make you feel?

I have a lot of wonderful memories about my grandmother.  Unlike my Mama who died when I was 8, my dad's mom was alive through my childhood and most of my 20's.  I really got to know her. 

This is my grandmothers life as I know it.  It could have been vastly different from what I remember or from what I have been told.  But this is what I know to be true.

My great-grandfather was a restless man.  Maybe it was the times or maybe it was an unsettledness that raged in his soul.  Whatever the case, he changed jobs frequently and they moved often.  He was a sometimes preacher and sometimes salesman and most likely a sometimes unemployed father of many children.  There were periods of provision and times of want.  My grandmother went hungry and because of this she spent her life battling with food.  She had bulimia.

Grandmother (she hated being called grandma) married Hardy P. Mayo when she was in her early 20's.  He was quite the catch.  His family had land and cash during the depression.  Not a tremendous amount to where they would be called wealthy but enough that they didn't suffer and were considered well-off.  My grandmother was drawn to the stability that money can provide.  I'm sure she loved my grandpa but when you've done without, survival instinct is the strongest instict of all. 

Grandpa made good on his promise.  He was a provider.  Trained as a banker in the late 1920's he had to make an abrupt career change after the depression.  It left an indelible mark on him.  Although he always had plenty, he was guarded with his money - just in case.

From all accounts my grandpa was a fun guy with lots of friends (more about him in another post).  He was also spoiled.  He liked to have his way, as do most people.  The problem was that his way was given to him so often that he believed he was entitled to it.  He loved my grandmother but he was always first. 

They raised 5 children together.  My grandmother was a softy, showing her children the same love and attention that she gave me.  My grandpa was hard as stone.  Maybe harder.  He simply didn't like the tomfoolery of children.  They were afraid of him.  They avoided him.  They loved him and hated him all at the same time.  This friction caused scars in all of them and my grandmother as well.  She tried to make it better but he was bigger and stronger and at that time that was the way with men and women.  Because of this my grandmother had "nerves" and pills to help when things went too far out of control.

Since my grandpa's family was a founding member of the community they lived in my grandmother had a reputation to keep up and this suited her just fine.  I think those years of uncertainty made her latch on to being a pillar in the community.  She was in garden club and Daughters of the American Revolution and other important things like that.  She dressed the part.  I loved to play with her hats, scarves, gloves and jewelry.  Her home though simple, was always beautifully decorated and clean.  I never once remember seeing her house dirty.  She had a lot of friends and I loved to go with her to the beauty shop where they would gossip as if I wasn't there. 

My grandmother died in her 80's.  Years before that she had began to wane in body and spirit.  That is the grandmother my sister knows because she came along later.  I could write a million more things about her.  I think about Hazel Marie more at Christmas than any other time of the year.  She loved this holiday.  I loved her.