As a Communication major, I do a lot of writing. This semester I have Feature Writing and every other week I write a nonfiction story. This past week I had to write about my hero.
I thought a lot about the story, but from the beginning, I knew who my hero was.
My grandmother, or "Mamaw" as I call her.
Here's the story to share:
Hero Feature
March 25, 2014
“Uhyelloo!” said my Mamaw in her country accent.
“Happy birthday, lady!” I said when she answered the phone.
“Well, hi honey. Thank you for calling me. How’s school and everything up there?” she asked.
My Mamaw is not the typical stereotype of grandmothers. She has short salt and pepper hair, dresses fashionably, and does athletic activities with her grandchildren. She is the best cook when it comes to any food, but she never believes it’s as good as the rest of us think. She’s 70-years-old, but she looks 55. I tell her all the time I hope I am as pretty as she is at her age. She loves to hear that.
Growing up I always felt like I had two sets of parents. My mom’s parents live directly behind our house. They watched my brother and me every summer while my parents worked, cooked dinner for my family two or three times a week, and if I was out late, they’d check with my mom to make sure I was homesafely.
I was the first grandchild, and I was spoiled. My Mamaw has always been one of my favorite people. She has taught me the truth about love and what it takes to make a relationship and family work. She has worked hard all her life raising threechildren, caring for five grandchildren and one great-granddaughter. She helps my Papaw with the garden, and keeps up with her flower beds.
I have always admired my Mamaw’s work-ethic. My grandparents grow a garden every year and they used to have cows, chickens, and ginny birds. Through the summers my brother and I always helped with breaking beans, shucking corn, picking a variety of vegetables, and picking quarts of blueberries.
My grandparents have been married for 52 years. For their 50 year wedding anniversary, their children and grandchildren planned a big party for them to celebrate. I asked each of them how they met. Surprisingly, neither one could remember.
“You don’t remember how you met, but you’ve been married for 50 years. How is that?” I asked my Mamaw. I was curious how she could not remember something so big.
“That doesn’t really matter now. What’s important is it’s been 50 years.”
“How’d you all make it 50 years?”
“You have to pick your battles. Know when to fight and when to let something go. And you never ever walk away when you’re mad. You have to work it all out for a marriage to work.”
That may be the best advice I have ever received from her.
It was January 2013. I was still at home from Christmas break, and over five inches of snow had fallen during the night. Sledding down the hill at my grandparents was one of the best things about winter.
This is not a normal hill to sled down. It’s behind the barn in the old cow pasture. As you go down the hill there are rocks, stumps, trees, holly bushes and at the bottom of the hill is a creek. You have to be able to steer the sled because it is not a straight shot.
“Come on, Mamaw. You know you want to sled down the hill,” I yelled to her. She had brought her camera to take pictures of my brother, mom and me as we sled.
“Oh, I guess I could do it,” she said. I think she was a little more excited than nervous.
She got on the sled behind me. It was a tight squeeze, but we both managed to get our feet up and we took off down the hill.
“AHHHHH!” Mamaw yelled as we went around the first stump.
The snow was falling again, and mixed with what was flying up from the sled, I could barely see to steer.
We took the next turn between a stump with a holly bush beside it and a tree. My brother was laughing so hard he was on the ground and my mom was trying to hold the camera steady to video us.
“Watch out for that stump!” Mamaw yelled as we came around the last curve. The creek was just ahead and we were not slowing down.
“BAIL OFF!” I yelled.
We both jumped off the sled and rolled a few feet. My mom and brother came running to make sure we were okay, but we were both laughing too hard to talk.
“Let’s go again!” Mamaw said as she wiped away tears from laughing.
And we went again. And again. I don’t know how many times we sledded that day.
“Well, I need to go, Mamaw. I have to get groceries.” I said after we had talked for 20 minutes. “Have a good rest of your birthday. I love you!”
“I love you too, dear,” Mamaw said and I could hear the tears in her voice.
My Mamaw. My best friend. My hero.
My grandparents with me on the day of my high school graduation, May 2011.
