Mamie Belle

     As I looked at my grandma lying in the hospital bed, I knew her time on earth was slipping like quicksilver through a sieve. All she had meant to me in the 45 years I had known her filled my thoughts. As I held her hand, my mind leaped through the past to events and opportunities, which had helped shape my life. One particular time in 1960 stood apart from the rest.

     Mamie Belle Musgrave Bean wore her silvery hair braided and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her piercing blue eyes always twinkled beneath lids that drooped as if they were resting. Perched on the bridge of her nose, were a pair of thin silver wire framed glasses. Though old in years, her skin was smooth and glowed like a young girl’s. Strong wrists and muscular forearms, giving evidence of years of hard work, accentuated the hands with long slender fingers, the fingers of an artist. Her voice clear and as soft as a summer breeze; held a slight quiver like an oak leaf touched by the wind.

     As we sat in her kitchen, I realized this old farmhouse had always been a haven of comfort. The smell of fresh baked pies, simmering beans in a pot on the wood cook stove and grape leaf pickles in an earthenware crock permeated my senses. Leaning back in a chair and soaking in the warmth of the wood stove, I drifted in and out of consciousness as she told of by gone days.

     “It was in December of 1899, and I was nine, the weather was cold and snowy,” she began.  Her sentences chopped into small bites so they could be easily digested. As I listened to her voice, it was like reading a chapter from American history. The story continued through most of the afternoon. However, this did not mean Grandma wasted time while telling the story; she was preparing vegetables, frying the country style steak or rolling biscuit dough. In addition, she was arranging the coals in the wood stove, as a woman today would adjust the temperature knob on a range, to keep a pot from boiling over.

     That day I learned life was never a bore to her; everything was viewed as an opportunity to learn. Her love for literature and history became evident as she talked. Moreover, her thirst for knowledge made each visit an adventure for anyone who would take the time to listen.

     Always intelligent and industrious she was also thoughtful, with a wry sense of Scottish humor. The privilege of knowing someone who lived life to the fullest makes me feel grateful and blessed. Born just 25 years after the War Between the States, Mamie Belle will always be my heroine. She taught me to aim for the stars and the word “impossible” never existed in her life. As she loved to say, “You can’t hit a star by shooting down a well.” This is my first shot at a star.