A Tribute to Mama Clyde
My memories of her spread deep into my life. She is so much a part of every part of me. A part of what I am and of what I have become. The memories I hold of her are very simple things - things which I took for granted as I was growing up. Things which I only came to appreciate long after.
Simple memories of hanging sheets on the line and rain drops that sent us running to save them.
Walks through the pasture, her pointing out things hidden, "Look out" she'd say - so long ago but not
forgotten.
Picking blackberries with her along a red dirt road.
Cornmeal mush she made for lost baby birds.
A fast, wild car ride in a dry county escaping a wet, swerving offender.
An old, old house I knew in which she lived her earlier years of young love and life.
A peach tree switch that broke my heart.
Her gifts of hand were from her soul - quilts and blanket slippers. Her quilts were just as much of her as they were from her. Some were deliberate, beautiful works of love and care while others were of practical patches of old garments kept, not to be wasted. I will always remember her love of quilting, a joy and an art that I can only hope to carry on for her as a heritage that she passed down to me.
I remember her in the cool air of autumn and our collecting walks beneath pecan trees. Bending, gathering, talking - contemplating the bagfulls that we'd put away, pies that would become, that we
would share. It was a yearly ritual for her, one that I shared infrequently, one that she continued until she could no more. What I would give to walk beneath those trees with her again.
I will always remember her garden, one of her loves of life. It was her creative expression - planting,
watering and tending - azaleas trimming the borders of her house, plants blooming everywhere.
Elephant ears standing tall in the corner. After dinner strolls around her yard - even now I can see her walking with her hands clasped behind her - showing me what was new and what was still growing strong. And what she hoped to plant - a continuum of her being in expectation of the spring to come.
She faced her share of challenges over the years. Farming alongside her life's partner so devoted.
Reaping the hardships and the rewards.
Raising four daughters to womanhood and watching each of them pass through the stages in their own way - yet much of her is within their ways as women, wives, mothers, and grandmothers.
Sweet tea turned to saccharin, honeybuns no more.
The deaths of so, so many close to her.
I will always, always remember her soft brown curls turned white - always curls - carried on by my mother, always curls.
Her early mornings, winter cold warmed by space heaters and double quilts. Breakfasts of biscuits, grits, eggs, followed by making beds. Doing dishes - she'd wash, I'd dry and innocently accept her challenge of who would finish first.
Daily cornbread and oh so sweet corn and always black-eyed peas for me, she knew my favorite.
No matter from where I came from my life of varied places she was a constant in my being. The same house, the same love, the same Mama Clyde. Her death is perhaps the saddest event I have ever experienced. But her life and what she gave of herself is a treasure that will never cease. I am so proud to be...
Her First Grandchild,
Cindy
Simple memories of hanging sheets on the line and rain drops that sent us running to save them.
Walks through the pasture, her pointing out things hidden, "Look out" she'd say - so long ago but not
forgotten.
Picking blackberries with her along a red dirt road.
Cornmeal mush she made for lost baby birds.
A fast, wild car ride in a dry county escaping a wet, swerving offender.
An old, old house I knew in which she lived her earlier years of young love and life.
A peach tree switch that broke my heart.
Her gifts of hand were from her soul - quilts and blanket slippers. Her quilts were just as much of her as they were from her. Some were deliberate, beautiful works of love and care while others were of practical patches of old garments kept, not to be wasted. I will always remember her love of quilting, a joy and an art that I can only hope to carry on for her as a heritage that she passed down to me.
I remember her in the cool air of autumn and our collecting walks beneath pecan trees. Bending, gathering, talking - contemplating the bagfulls that we'd put away, pies that would become, that we
would share. It was a yearly ritual for her, one that I shared infrequently, one that she continued until she could no more. What I would give to walk beneath those trees with her again.
I will always remember her garden, one of her loves of life. It was her creative expression - planting,
watering and tending - azaleas trimming the borders of her house, plants blooming everywhere.
Elephant ears standing tall in the corner. After dinner strolls around her yard - even now I can see her walking with her hands clasped behind her - showing me what was new and what was still growing strong. And what she hoped to plant - a continuum of her being in expectation of the spring to come.
She faced her share of challenges over the years. Farming alongside her life's partner so devoted.
Reaping the hardships and the rewards.
Raising four daughters to womanhood and watching each of them pass through the stages in their own way - yet much of her is within their ways as women, wives, mothers, and grandmothers.
Sweet tea turned to saccharin, honeybuns no more.
The deaths of so, so many close to her.
I will always, always remember her soft brown curls turned white - always curls - carried on by my mother, always curls.
Her early mornings, winter cold warmed by space heaters and double quilts. Breakfasts of biscuits, grits, eggs, followed by making beds. Doing dishes - she'd wash, I'd dry and innocently accept her challenge of who would finish first.
Daily cornbread and oh so sweet corn and always black-eyed peas for me, she knew my favorite.
No matter from where I came from my life of varied places she was a constant in my being. The same house, the same love, the same Mama Clyde. Her death is perhaps the saddest event I have ever experienced. But her life and what she gave of herself is a treasure that will never cease. I am so proud to be...
Her First Grandchild,
Cindy
