I remember it as if it were yesterday. A childhood full of adventure. I was blessed to have two grandmothers who were masterful storytellers. One would weave a grand tale from her rocking chair, and the other from the banks of the creek in her back yard. Regardless of the setting, both held me spellbound with their stories.
My Grandma was a soft-spoken, silver-haired lady with the demeanor of an angel. She and her sister, Kat, grew up freely roaming the dusty roads and pasturelands of South Georgia. And while feisty Kat would lead them into some rather colorful circumstances, sweet Annie maintained her demure composure through it all. When Grandma told me her stories, I was motionless, captivated by her narrative and a world long gone.
My MeMe was a bit more spirited. My brother and I spent our summers at her house, mostly outdoors. She was fun and fearless, not at all shy to get dirty and play in the mud with us. I would sit at her feet hanging on her every word as she told me about her grandfather’s “warrior heart” and humble beginnings. My imagination would wander past the creek and into the woods, and I’d swear I could almost see him hunting beyond the trees – just as my MeMe so vividly described.
The love of a good story runs deep in my family. So stick around, and I’ll spin a few yarns for you… just like Grandma and MeMe used to do.
-P.E. Shadrick
