All holidays, especially Christmas, were joyous with Grandpa and Granddaddy. Grandpa wrapped presents with sticky bows and curling ribbons. They were never beautiful or fancy, but you knew there was something special hidden inside. Her tree was about the same. Colored lights hung with silver icicles and ornaments collected over the years. Nothing matched, and the more tinsel she could hang or throw, the happier she was. But underneath were many treasures.
Her house was also simple, with its wood-burning stove heating the house and warming Granddaddy’s hands as he came in from the lumber mill. He would stoke the fire as the aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled the air. And with her apron around her waist and flour scattered across a dough board, Grandpa spent her holidays baking her scrumptious jam cakes as gifts for blessed souls.
But on Christmas day in 1965, the colored lights were still in their boxes, and no silver icicles hung from any tree. Grandpa had quietly made her jam cakes that year, but Granddaddy was gone. He died suddenly in August, along with Grandpa’s Christmas spirit.
We tried to console her, but she said, “Christmas won’t ever be the same again, so I would just as soon be alone.” It was the first time I ever knew my Grandpa to lose her infectious joy.
By the following Christmas, Grandpa was back in her warm kitchen, baking an abundance of jam cakes. Her love of Christmas was never quite the same, but her laughter and spirit were healing.
“Shoot, I was just feelin’ sorry for myself! Christmas is about Jesus bein’ born and the joy we feel because He was! I may not have a tree, but I got the Lord!”
A few years later, I made my Christmas buying list, but I couldn’t think of a suitable gift for Grandpa. My typewriter was sitting near me, and I began writing a story about this remarkable, humble woman.
I was living in Georgia and decided to send the story to the Crossville, Tennessee, newspaper. I never received a reply from the editor and began a new search for a meaningful present.
A few weeks later, I got a phone call from Grandpa. “Lynn, what have you done?”
I immediately began to ponder all my misdeeds in life, and by the tone in her voice, I figured God himself must have told her about them all.
After Granddaddy died, Grandpa moved the twenty miles from Monterey to Crossville, but she would travel back to her hometown every Wednesday to visit family. She always took the Crossville Chronicle for her sister to read. During this weekly road trip, she would stop and chat with her best friend, Hazel, in the Mayland community, halfway in between.
The old Dodge pulled into Hazel’s driveway, and when she applied the squeaking brakes, a group of folks ran from the house, screaming her name!
Scared to death, she hopped from the car, “What’s happened! Is anyone sick?” She yelled.
“Nannie, did you not read that paper in your front seat?” Hazel asked as she pointed to the passenger seat.
“No, I didn’t have time! Why? Whose obituary is in there?” She asked as she gazed at the surprised faces.
“Honey, bring your paper, and let’s get in from the cold.” Hazel insisted.
Once inside, Grandpa opened the paper to the second page as the crowd gathered around her.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS, GRANDPA!” was the nearly two-inch title running boldly across the top of the page. There were no ads or words other than those I wrote about the kindest woman I ever knew.
After her tearful thanks over the phone, she said as an afterthought, “Honey, did you know you can write?”
Not many women would allow their nine grandchildren and fifteen great-grandchildren to call them Grandpa. Few would bake delicate Christmas jam cakes as prized gifts or love others so much that an indelible mark would be left on their souls.
Today I write for publications, mainly newspapers, and it all began when love spilled on paper because my heart could not contain it all. Grandpa is now known beyond the Tennessee hills across the country through the stories I tell of this lovely, God-filled, thoughtful soul.
Merry Christmas, Grandpa! You were always Christmas to me.
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Lynn Walker Gendusa is a writer in Georgia and the author of the new book “Southern Comfort.” She is originally from Monterey, Tennessee.
