“How was your weekend?” I once asked my great-grandmother.
“Good, I was out visiting the ‘old folks,'” she said with a grin.
The “old folks” she was referring to were the people living in the retirement home — unlike my great-grandmother, who was still living independently in her house. I couldn’t help but giggle, because she was 91 years young at the time.
I always loved spending time with my great-grandmother
Mabel Wells — or Memmie, to her family — lived her entire life in rural Kentucky. During the hourlong drive to her house, my younger sister and I counted cows and tried to guess which field went with what crop.
Mabel was born in 1909, at a time when the Titanic was being built, World War I was still five years away, and instant coffee was mass-produced for the first time. Outhouses were all the rage, and horse-drawn carriages were the fanciest form of transportation. Ms. Mabel farmed, raised three kids, and found time to run a café. Everyone in her tiny town of Hodgenville, KY, knew her, but to me, she was just Memmie.
When I was little (around 5 or 6 years old), all I knew was that Memmie was old. She was in her 60s back then, but it wasn’t her aging hands or the lines on her forehead that gave her away; it was her confidence. She was a ferocious truth teller and direct in her delivery. Not willing to compromise her evening TV ritual for my cartoons (I suppose my kindergarten spelling skills were advanced due to Wheel of Fortune), I was intimidated by her, but at the same time, I felt loved.
My cousins and I were free to rummage through Memmie’s basement and attic. I’d open overstuffed drawers, and my 10-year-old heart raced with excitement, wondering what treasures I might find. This freedom to snoop was nothing short of a love language to a grade-schooler. We read old issues of Reader’s Digest, and as I tried on vintage dresses with white dress gloves that smelled like mothballs, I was connected to a different time.
As a kid, I lived completely in the present. I had no true understanding of the depth of history or of times past. But when I buttoned up one of Memmie’s dresses, I had tangible proof that life had indeed happened before me. I imagined how she must’ve felt wearing the outfit for the first time. I remember wondering what her life looked like when she was a teenager. Though she wasn’t big on telling stories about her past, she didn’t need to for me to understand she’d been through a lot and made it.
Her simple ‘longevity secret’ was so typical of her
Memmie was always the oldest person I knew, and my sister and I (and later my husband) tried to figure out her secret to a long, healthy life. “It must be all the organic vegetables she ate growing up,” my sister said. I countered, “It was something in the well water she drank…and all the game shows.” Then, one day, we decided to ask her.
My husband and I took a moment in the months before her 100th birthday to ask what her secret to longevity was. We sat next to her, waiting to take notes, and without a pause, she waved her hand dismissively and said, “Don’t worry so much.” Huh.
I’d expected a more profound answer, but this was Memmie. Always truthful and to the point, this was a fitting response. She’d hoped to live to be 101, but sadly left us later that year, so proud of the legacy she’d left us. Growing up, I watched my great-grandmother live with such a deep acceptance of the present, which allowed her to enjoy the beauty in every moment. It’s a trait she’s passed on, and one I try to remember every day.
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