Grammy Major, A Sweet Old Soul
My Grammy Major, a sweet old soul,
Gentle, loving, and a heart made of gold,
Yet she wouldn’t hesitate, to speak her mind,
To share her thoughts, so firm, yet kind.
Born in 1900, she saw times change,
From the simple ways to the modern range,
At sixteen, she left Roses, Long Island’s shore,
For Nassau’s streets, where she saw much more.
She marveled at the telephone’s first ring,
And the television, a magical thing,
But her true love was the battery radio’s tune,
ZNS playing, from dawn till moon.
She’d sway to the merengue in the old kitchen’s light,
Her feet gliding softly, her smile so bright,
We grandchildren would giggle, our hearts full of cheer,
As grammy danced, no worries, no fear.
Her head scarf tied, dress flowing below her knee,
An apron around her, as busy as could be,
Loved by family, friends, and neighbors too,
A beacon of kindness in all she would do.
She taught us morals, the good and the right,
Using the Holy Book, as a guiding light,
And if we got fresh, or too bold in our tone,
Her discipline was swift, but with love shown.
On a bench by the opened back door, she’d sit and puff,
Her pipe full of tobacco, dark and tough,
Bought from Mr. Sands’ shop, just down the street,
We’d walk there with her, our steps quick and neat.
She’d roll that leaf, soften it up just right,
Stuff it in her pipe, with hands so light,
A wooden match, a puff, and a glow,
Sometimes it went out, but she’d relight and make it flow.
For us, a secret draw, she’d sometimes allow,
But hush, that’s between you and me for now,
Her rocking chair creaked with joy and delight,
As we crowded around her, she made everything allright.
To Potter’s Cay dock, we’d walk hand in hand,
To buy fresh fish from the fisherman’s stand,
She’d cook it with peas and grits so fine,
The fish guts thrown to the cats, every time.
Her Fridays were filled with the smell of fresh baked bread,
The aroma would spread, filling hearts and heads,
Family and neighbors, would take home a loaf,
Her hands kneaded love in every piece, no boast.
Her benny cake and coconut cake were treats so sweet,
Dropped onto a marble slab, and let cool to eat,
A straw fanner she’d use, for grits to clean,
We’d eat it with butter, on the floor pristine.
Her chicken coop, a busy place,
With clucking hens all over the space,
We’d find hidden eggs in a nest, and run to her side,
And she’d make yellow island cake, with affection and pride.
Laundry day was a ritual of care,
Two tin tubs, a scrub board, the clothes laid bare,
Argo starch for the finest touch,
Then hung on the line to dry, no rush.
And if the rain came, we’d dash and race,
Picking in the clothes with quickened pace,
Her ironing was perfect, hand sprinkled for steam,
Pressed smooth and skilled, an ironer’s dream.
When sickness came, her bush tea was near,
Cerasee, bitter, but brewed with no fear,
“Drink it all down, and you’ll be just fine,”
Grammy’s care was constant, and gave relief every time.
In the backyard, she planted with the moon,
Corn, peas, pumpkin, beans, all in tune,
Natural and fresh, a harvest so grand,
Grammy’s green thumb, the best in the land.
Old stories she’d tell, of times long past,
Scary tales of jack o’ lanterns, you'd better run fast,
We’d listen with eyes wide and hearts that raced,
Her words painting pictures of a time erased.
Sometimes she talked to herself, deep in thought,
Reviewing life’s events, the lessons they brought,
A way to find peace, to make sense of it all,
Her wisdom was deep, her heart standing tall.
Now she’s gone, since 1987,
At age eighty-seven, she found her heaven,
Resting in the Methodist graveyard’s care,
But her spirit lives on, in memories we share.
The love of a grammy, to her grandchildren given,
Is a treasure that stays, as long as we’re living,
For Grammy Major, her love was pure and true,
And in our hearts, her legacy grew.
Bye grammy.
