I'M GOING TO GRANNY'S HOUSE!
North Texas summers are hot and dry and
generally quite humid. And in the summer of 1961, the scorching sunlight and
intense heat ignited one of the worst droughts on record. The sidewalks sizzled
and roasted my bare feet, and the heat permeated the already parched ground in
front of our home leaving huge cracks and crevices. The grassy lawns—yellow and
burnt—smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too
long.
We couldn’t afford air conditioning; and
even though the air outside was motionless, Mother opened the windows wide
every morning. As each day progressed
the oppressive heat thickened, singing the air in our tiny two-bedroom home
making it feel stagnant and suffocating. So I often spent my summer days
sitting by the open windows reading a book and—despite the still air—smelling
the sweet aroma of Mother’s honeysuckle vines.
Occasionally, I escaped outdoors riding my
bike up and down the neighborhood
I thought about riding my bike to the city
pool and jumping into the cool, refreshing water. But I stopped short, for I
knew better than to go without asking Mother. So, I pedaled home as fast as I
could and offered her my seemingly simple solution to the summer heat.
“It’s soooo hot, Mama! May I go swimming
today?”
“No, sweetie, you may not. It’s too
expensive to go swimming.”
“But I want to go swimming. All the other kids are going swimming. Pleeease, Mama, please!”
“No!” Mother wrinkled her eyebrow. “Don’t ask me again!”
I pouted, stomped my foot, and shouted,
“Well, fine! I’m running away from home—to Granny’s house. I bet she’ll take me
swimming.” I stormed into my bedroom and
slammed the door—a huge mistake. Mother had zero tolerance for back talking and
door slamming. “What was I thinking?”
Surprisingly, Mother didn’t immediately
appear at my door. She eventually flung open my bedroom door brandishing a doll
suitcase and ceremoniously tossed it onto my bed. “If you’re going to run away, you’ll need a
suitcase.” She yanked open one of my
dresser drawers. “Here, let me help you
pack a few things.” Mother grabbed a change of clothes and my pajamas then
closed the lid of the suitcase. “I’ve
called your grandmother. She’s expecting
you. Oh,” she turned and faced me, “here’s a sack lunch with a peanut butter
sandwich and bag of potato chips. Now, give me your wrist.”
Mother tied one of her delicate
handkerchiefs around my wrist. “Be careful with this handkerchief. Inside it is
25 cents so you can stop along the way and get something to drink.”
I was speechless and dumbfounded. She took my hand and escorted me out the
front door placing my lunch sack and tiny suitcase in the rear saddlebags of my
bike. She hugged me and waved goodbye.
“Call me when you get to Granny’s house.
Remember I love you.”
Mother calmly turned around and marched
inside the house, closing the screen door behind her. Although Granny lived some
20 miles away, I had to save face and was left with no other choice but to hop
aboard my bike and ride away. So, I drove to a nearby park. I parked my bicycle and sat down under a huge
shade tree and cried, eventually falling asleep. When I awoke, I smelt Mother’s handkerchief;
it smelled like her. I knew I had to go home.
As I pedaled home I wondered what I should
say and do if Mother would, in fact, let me back home. I parked my bike
adjacent to the house; removed the suitcase and sack lunch; then gingerly
opened the screen door. When I entered the living room, Mother glanced up from
her crossword puzzle. “Glad you’re
home.”
I returned to my bedroom; unpacked my
suitcase; and ventured back to the living room where I snuggled next to Mother
on the couch. She hugged me in silence, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead.
Thankfully, Mother was not prone to indignation, guilt, or “I told you so.”
Running away is not the solution for disappointment,
frustration, and anger—a life lesson lovingly taught without Mother ever saying
a word.
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