When I was growing up I would spend a couple of weeks each summer at the home of Anne Price Brown. A southern steel magnolia of a Grandma. My mother’s mother. The two weeks included my cousins. We all met in Goldsboro, NC. Back then I thought for sure the whole town belonged to my Grandma Brown. She had to have been the unofficial Mayor. There were three of us-between me and my cousins- all girls-close enough in age-but looking nothing alike. But Annie Brown would always have matching outfits for us to wear while we were there. She would have gone to Weil’s in beautiful downtown Goldsboro and with the help of Miss Mary, picked out an array of outfits for her “Grandchil’ren”. If the theme was polka dots-then we would all have the same dress-but the color of the dots would differ. If the theme was nautical-then we would all have the same outfit-but in different versions. I would have the sailor top with the gianormous collar and a skort with little gold anchor trim, Beth would have the jumper with the big red bow, and Lisa would have the short and middie matching set. She was younger and could get away with “showing her tummy” She was 7 at the time. I, of course, was going through the “cute little pudgy phase” and there would be no mention of me wearing the middie. Beth always got the jumpers. And with Annie Brown- there were always hats. We hated the hats. On the first day of our summer visit- she would insist we all get dressed in our outfits -which were laid out on each of our twin beds with the chenille bedspreads-and Annie Brown would load us up into her Cadillac and off we would go. Downtown Goldsboro. Weils Department store; where matching outfits were purchased, Brown’s Radio and T.V. to see Grandaddy and James and eat a pack of Lance nabs,and finally, Weeks Luncheonette. They were known for daily blue plate specials and hush-puppies. Hush puppies came with everything. Plopped right down in the middle of the table in a red plastic basket, with a slip of wax paper. Everyone knew Weeks had the best hush-puppies. Weeks didn’t put “them little tiny onions”in the mix. Just cornbread. We always dipped them in melted butter. Sweet tea or Pepsi to drink please. Annie Brown was in her glory, she in her own matching ensemble surrounded by her family. That woman could match a pair of shoes with a handbag in seconds flat. And don’t get me started on her jewerly. She adored jewelry-and my Grandaddy Brown used to keep her in it.
After the parading of the grandchildren- we got back to the house, kicked off the matching fussiness-put on our own clothes and played, played played. Barefoot and full of adventure. Grandmama and Grandaddy’s house was full of all things summer. We were safe and carefree. They had the perfect porch for a theater-so you can imagine what I had in mind-though Beth and Lisa did not share my dramatic enthusiasm- we had quite the world on a string. We would race around the yard from front to back- go-cart to playhouse, to pecan tree, to giant magnolia tree, to secret places we created somewhere in the intertwine of rosebushes, azaleas and irises.
Grandma Brown would look out the window from time to time, just to check, or come outside and sit in the aluminum glider and watch us. She’d be barefoot too. Perfect feet with perfectly painted toe nails. She’d beg us to stay out of her rosebushes and azaleas- oh and please do not step in the little trays of beer set out to kill the slugs. Wait! Dead,drunk slugs floating around in a stale beer swimming pool made out of aluminum foil? This I gotta see. Yep, the only reason beer or for that matter, alcohol, was ever purchased was to kill rosebush eating slugs.
I’d be all over the place. Feet black from southern dirt and concrete. Grandma Brown would yell across the yard “Gloria!”……….strong in tone and southern dialect-in fact, I can still hear it clear as a bell in my head-but could never duplicate it-still today,even at my best attempt. Her shock of white hair, all perfect and wavy-it dare not be out of place; “Gloria!” she’d yell, and then utter the well known southern if not universal phrase: “Ya look like a chicken runn’in around with it’s head cut off”. The image of that picture in my ten year old pudgy brain was enough back then to make me stop and slow down. At east for a little bit. Then I was back off again, headless and running around all crazy wild.