On this date in 1907, Vera Owen Bridges was born. She would become a mother 21 years later. Many, many years after that, she would become a great-grandmother. My great-grandmother.
All my memories portray her as an old woman. Honestly, I don’t recall her having teeth, at least not during my lifetime. Her gray hair was kept short, though once in a while it reached a length that allowed her to twist it into a tight, little bun. Maybe that wasn’t an allowance. Maybe it was a hindrance. I’m not sure. I don’t recall her going to any beauty parlors (which is what she would have called them), but I do remember her applying a blueish tint to her fine, thin hair. And that took place in her old kitchen.
Actually, a lot took place in that old kitchen. Biscuits were baked. Catfish was fried. Gravy was stirred. More meals than I could ever recall were eaten at the kitchen’s old wooden table, its aged oil-cloth cover sticky and cracked. There was no formal dining room, but that table held more class and grace than most.
Granny Vera told me stories of being the daughter of a moon-shiner. How her father had taught her to drive an old truck so that she could deliver the liquor to his customers. The thinking was that if she ever got caught, she wouldn’t go to jail – being an underage girl. On the other hand, if her father or older brother had been busted, jail would have definitely been in the cards. So young Vera did as she was told and learned to drive a truck with a manual transmission and no power anything – steering, brakes or otherwise. When I drive around in my old Volvo – named after Granny Vera – I think of her each time I work hard to crank that steering wheel. And no matter how hard it gets, I think to myself that if Granny could do it, I can, too. Especially since my car has never once been loaded down with the weight of illegal hooch.
I suppose the drinking began when she was a young girl, but I have no proof of that. I know she met Eugene Bridges – Big Papa – at a juke joint in Georgia where she liked to go and dance. I’m fairly certain her drinking continued there. And after.
By the time I met her, and really grew to know her, she was sneaking her drinks. The family had decided she shouldn’t be drinking anymore. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. I mean, there were times when it seemed to my young eyes that she was probably drunk. And those times were fun. Granny never stopped enjoying dancing, and I have specific memories of dancing with her in her front yard, bare feet and hard red dirt. She danced with abandon, which only served to encourage my own flailing limbs and crazy rhythm. For Granny, it was about fun. For me, that meant the world.
There were, of course, times when she was none too happy with me. That was to be expected. I was, after all, a kid. But even during those few tense times, like when she hurled a giant wooden bowl at my head (and missed), the scenes ended in laughter. Those times, too, meant the world to me.
Granny Vera outlived Big Papa by fourteen years. She even made it to see the year 2000. I like to think she held on, just to see what might be new around that monumental corner. She was a few months shy of her 93rd birthday.
As I’ve said, I never knew Granny Vera as anything but old. But the kicker is that she was perhaps the youngest adult I shall ever meet. Her jokes, her curiosity, her laughter, her stories – all were aspects of a young-at-heart gal who enjoyed life and did her best to live it. She was cash-poor every day of her life. And yet somehow, she taught me to be joyfully rich. I will love her right through my last breath.
Happy Birthday, Granny. Today I dance in your honor.