Growing up, I looked forward to holidays and family reunions because they meant we were going to visit Grandma in West Virginia.  She lived alone at the end of a long dirt road at the head of a holler.  Her two-story house had shingle siding, a tin roof, and no neighbors in sight.  It was where her in-laws lived before her and where she and my grandpa raised eleven kids.

Family gatherings there always began with the incessant slamming of car doors as uncles and aunts reached the end of a long drive and 29 grandkids scattered everywhere.  Some of us ran to the barn, some the creek or the woods, others headed straight to the house and the ceramic duck cookie jar resting on Grandma’s deep freeze where she stashed 5th Avenue and Zero bars.  Grandma watched us, smiling, as we ran every which way, and when one of our parents admonished us with a Slow down! or Stop being so loud!, Grandma would say, “Oh, let ’em play. They’re kids.”  She would remind them that they were once loud, dirty kids running through the same house.

As far as I can remember, she rarely raised her voice and only swung a switch maybe twice and only when one of us grandkids back-talked our parents.  That’s the one thing she didn’t tolerate… sass.  She was slow moving but first on the scene when it came to setting things right.  I remember her once telling my kindest uncle to cut a switch.  When he returned with it, she switched the legs of his son for sassing him.

Most of us knew better than to misbehave around Grandma.  We loved and respected her and knew the woods around her house were full of switches.  I thought the world of her, and it helped that my dad and others frequently told me I was her favorite grandson.  I’d do anything she asked and everything I found needed doing without her having to ask – chop and stack the wood, haul buckets of coal, cut brush, and pile rocks.  Sometimes there were several months between our visits, but upon arrival I would immediately set about completing whatever chores I could find.

I felt I received extra hugs, and Grandma would whisper in my ear that there were Nutty Bars (my favorite) in the cabinet, and I should get some when my cousins weren’t around.  Feeling I was her favorite, I didn’t want to disappoint her, while also feeling like nothing I could do would disappoint; a foolish mistake on my part.  One fall when I was fourteen, my dad and I went to visit Grandma for the weekend to do some squirrel hunting.  Grandma always beat the sun up when she had company, cooking as if all her children were home and hungry.  This particular morning was no different, and the smell of bubbling gravy and sizzling sausage drew us downstairs to the table.  As we ate with gusto, Grandma did as she always did, nibbled a biscuit and watched us enjoy her food with a smile on her face.  When my dad finished, he stood, grabbed his shotgun and walked out.  As I stood to follow, Grandma told me to put some sausage biscuits together.  Knowing we would be in the woods all day, she wanted to make sure we had something to eat for later.

After whipping the biscuits together and tucking them into the large pocket on my hunting coat, I said, “I better go catch up with my old man.”  She could’ve beaten me with a two-by-four and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as the look she gave me.  I felt I’d instantly become her least favorite.  After a long pause, she scoldingly said, “He’s not your old man.  He’s your daddy.”

Her words were evergreen, influencing how I treat elders and my father to this day.  I muttered, “Yes ma’am,” lowered my head, and skulked out of the house and up the hill to catch up with my dad. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Jason Hurst has a talent for writing and a desire to pursue productive and creative endeavors. He was recently one of the subjects of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, has worked with Prison Pod Productions, and is currently working on a podcast project to raise awareness regarding death row.
Jason can be contacted at:

Jason Hurst #0509565
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com