Grandmaw, Thelmer and Mer Lou's Kids

As a child, I had two options. I could be a Taylor, or a Jones. My dad was a Taylor, but was never around, so I was raised by my mother’s family. As Americans or Georgians, we have many choices. Here’s what I mean. You can be from this country, you can be from another country, like my wife, or you can be from the country. My family is from the country.           

Last weekend I had the absolute privilege of attending a birthday party for my ain’t Thelmer in Greensboro, Georgia. See, another set of choices. She could be my aunt, or my auntie, but in my family, she is my ain’t and everyone in the family calls her Thelmer instead of Thelma. It was her ninety-sixth birthday, but there was an ongoing, argument between her and the rest of the family all day. Most said she was ninety-six and had math to back it up. She said ninety-four and had ninety-something years to back her up. I agree with my cousin Danny, an old fashioned country preacher who said grace over the food.            

“I reckon a woman her age has lived long enough to be whatever age she wants to be.” Amen.           

My grandmaw and her sister Mary Lou, the family called her Mer Lou, were Jones and were born in Lula, Georgia. If you were born in Lula, you might be from the country. If you pronounce it Luler, and they did, that’s all the proof you’ll ever need.           

Here, is another one of those choices. She could be my grandmother or grandma, but she was grandmaw. I spent my entire childhood, going to family functions and being the kid with the strange accent. I love to visit the Jones. They remind me of my grandmaw, and she’s the single thing I don’t mind being reminded of on a daily basis. The words she used and the way she used them, will forever be as honey to my ears.           

At some time before I was born my grandmaw left North Georgia, the home of the chicken industry, for Middle Georgia, the home of the textile industry. Did you know that Gainesville, Georgia is what amounts to chicken Hades? More chickens die each day in Gainesville than in the rest of the world combined.            

Anyway our family became separated into the Northern and Southern clans of the Joneses. Others followed until there was about as many of one as the other. Then one of my cousins, Carolyn, one of Mer Lou’s girls and Danny’s sister, moved out to Washington State and began a clan of her own. I guess she would be the matriarch of the far Western clan. She came to visit last year and was to stay with the Northern clan for the first week and then with the Southern clan for the second. As I lived in the middle, it was decided my house would be the exchange spot.           

I was excited as I had never met her. My wife Mary Carmen and I had just met, and she is the only one of us who can say she is from another country, being born in Lima, Peru. She came by to meet some of my family. The Northern, Southern and Western clans clashed in Athens, Georgia and for over an hour, every one of them spoke excitedly and at the same time. It was perfectly normal to all of us.           

My wife speaks Spanish and English and can even waltz her way around a little French and Italian. She stood and listened to my family for an hour, acting as the perfect hostess, offering drinks, snacks and even her seat. As the last one exited the house, she reached out and grasped my arm. Slowly she sunk into a kitchen chair, her smile fading as she did so.           

I could see the distress as her perfect golden color drained from her face.            “Are you okay sweetie?” She likes it when I call her sweetie and so do I.            She held my arm in a death grip, and I was genuinely concerned.            

“My head hurts, my stomach is upset, and my knees are shaking. I was afraid they were going to ask me a question. What language were they speaking?”           

It took everything I had to keep from laughing.            

“That was Mountain American, sweetie.”           

In less than an hour, the Southern, Northern and far Western bands of ain’t Mer Lou’s family gave Mary Carmen a crash course on a new language. She has adjusted well. In less than a year, she can almost understand it, but I haven’t heard it try to speak it yet. When she does, like everything she does, her words will be sweet and probably pretty funny. I can’t help but wonder what my grandmaw would have thought of her. I regret I’ll never know.