My grandma was a nurse by profession, but a care giver at heart. If she found out that anyone was sick, she’d get on the Greyhound and make her way there. She was everyone’s mother no matter how old you were and sometimes whether you wanted her to be or not. When she saw you, she’d give you the heartiest hug while slapping your back with such force that just knew that her hand-print was left behind, but that was her trademark. I guess her hugs were metaphorical–she was both firm and loving at the same time. She was a fearless woman when it came to her own health and safety, but always nervous about everyone else’s health and safety. Two recollections and one historical fact epitomized her fearlessness.

As a small child, I remember seeing a small snake in her yard–it was probably about 6 inches long. I called out to her. Instantly she arrived, she saw the snake and, without hesitation, she stepped on it. I was awestruck . . . from that point I believed that she wasn’t afraid of anything. During that same summer, I recall being in grandma’s car as she was driving us somewhere. I looked in the glove compartment and saw a pistol there. I asked her about it and she told me that she used it to protect herself against snakes. "Wow,’ I thought. I later realized that she was speaking metaphorically, but still, her fearlessness against snakes of the human variety was something to be reckoned with. I also recall hearing a story about how the KKK would call the house to threaten my grandfather, who was a civil rights leader, and the rest of the family. According to the story, when the KKK called the house and told my grandma that they were on their way to harm the family, she told them, without hesitation that she’d be up waiting for them with her guns loaded and aimed. They believed her and didn’t show up.

My grandma didn’t live her life in fear–she did what she wanted to do for as long as she could do it. With her grandkids, she made us feel that everything that we did was awesome, and whenever we had self-doubts she gave us courage. She was also the center of the family–each year, no matter where we were, we would all come together to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas at grandma’s house. She loved having the family together–she was really the pulse of the family. One day I hope to be the pulse of my family. Even though she’s physically gone, her own legacy will continue. In fact, I found this article about her on the internet today: http://johngullion.wordpress.com/2009/01/16/life-in-selma-part-ii/ .  Fearless!

Each year early May, my husband and I would usually buy 5 Mothers’ Day cards–one for each mother and grandmother (2 for me and 1 for him). Last Mother’s Day, we only had 4 cards to buy . . . this year we only had 2 gifts to give. Within a matter of about a year, both of our grandmothers have passed on. Meanwhile, I had my first "almost a mother" Mother’s Day yesterday. So for me, it was both exciting (since our first child is due in July) and a little sad. I reflected upon the lives and recent passing of both of my grandmothers: Lucille Hunter, January 2008 (paternal grandma) and Nellene Gillam January 2009 (maternal grandma). Their recent passing left me with a lot to think about on Mother’s Day.

First, I am thankful to have my own mother still alive and well. A fact for which I am truly appreciative, both for myself and for our unborn child. In fact, I pray that my child to has as full, interesting and rewarding relationships with her grandmothers as I had with mine. Second, I reflected upon all the intangible gifts that my grandmothers gave me by sharing their lives with me. My grandmother’s were different yet cut from the same cloth. As children my siblings and I both called them "Grandma" but added their city of residence in the appendage to distinguish them Stay tuned for more on "Grandma in Selma" and "Grandma in Pensacola"...

As a child, I rarely got spanked. Not because my parents were against spanking, but rather because I did whatever I could to avoid even the most remote possibility that leather would need to meet my rear-end…until the fire….

I can remember one day when I was 7, I remember my age because I actually had chicken pox at the time. I can remember being in the bathroom with my sister Adrian who was 5 years old and didn’t really seem to have the same fear of belts that I had. Anyway, Our bathroom had one of those old space heaters in the wall right next to the toilet. I was on the toilet and Adrian was in there with me for some reason. Being the older sister who sets a good example for her siblings, I dared Adrian to stick a piece of toilet paper into the burning fire of the space heater. Adrian was fearless back then, and she did it as I knew she would. Well, I hadn’t actually planned out what she'd do after she lit the paper. Once it was lit, she looked to me for guidance. Well, being the smart older sister, I told her to throw the paper on the floor, onto the area rug surrounding the toilet--I know, not so smart. As you guessed, the carpet didn’t exactly put out the flames as I’d imagined. Rather, the carpet began to burn right under my feet as I sat on the toilet.

So, I did what any fearless leader would do, I yelled "DADDY!!!" He came in and quickly stomped out the small fire. What a relief, or so I thought. Well, as soon as he finished his foot action with the fire, he asked who lit the fire…meanwhile, his hands started moving to his belt--I knew what that meant and I wanted no part of it. Well, technically, Adrian did light the fire, so I said she did it. As Adrian was being led out of the bathroom, my conscious overtook my fear of the belt. I actually had a little debate in my mind about it because, as far as I could tell, Adrian didn’t seemed to get phased by spankings, whereas I hyper-ventilated at the thought of such. Anyway, I bit the bullet and confessed, "I told her to start the fire." Did honesty in fact pay for young Karlyn….well, let's just say, the hyper-ventilating didn’t work and I heard my dad say “this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

We all have stories that our grandmothers tell, or used to tell, about us over and over again—each time they’d tell it as if it was the first time they’d mentioned the story to you or anyone else. Well, my maternal grandmother loves to tell this story, which, to her, demonstrates my (usually) calm nature. Wanna here it…here it goes….

One Sunday afternoon when I was about 4 or 5 years old, after church, my mother had made dinner with red Jello and whipped cream for dessert. I actually recall this event, and I know it was a Sunday because that’s when we’d have dessert with dinner and eat at the formal dining room table. Anyway, my parents were still married at that time, and my father was late coming to the table to eat dinner. Actually, by the time he’d gotten to the table, I’d eaten my food, my Jello and had started eating his food too. I’d managed to eat his small bowl of Jello (I always liked to eat my desserts first) and had started on his chicken.

By the time that my father got to the table, I was pretty stuffed, his plate looked a mess, my face looked a mess (I’ll post the photo if I can still find it), and I’d decided that it was TV time. My father was upset, or at least he appeared to be. He came to me and said, in a stern voice, “Karlyn, who ate my food.” I utilized the zone out into outer space and pretend that you don’t hear him approach—I didn’t answer. “Karlyn, who ate my food,” he repeated…again no answer from young Karlyn. He then leaves the room, and presumably ate whatever food was left. According to my grandmother, as he walked away, I finally looked away from the TV and watched him go back to the dining room.

She would end this story by saying “Karlyn, no matter what folks are doing, carrying on and cutting up, you always seemed to pay them no mind as if none of it was going on around you.” I think that ability to be stoned-faced and zoned out helps me in court—you have to keep a stoned face no matter what the judge or the defense throw at you.

I wonder if our future kids will at least leave the big piece of chicken for dad.

I'll never forget the Christmas that my dad bought me a pair of roller skates-you know, the old school kind, the heavy metals ones that you strap/tie on to your regular shoes. I was about 14 years old at that time. That Christmas holiday we went to Selma to visit my grandparents--John and Lucille Hunter, and all of our cousins, uncles and aunts who would come during that time. I remember this being a warm Christmas because I wanted to skate around the house in my new skates. Well, my sister Adrian, brother John and cousins Felicia, Katrina Willie (Perch) and I (I'm not sure where Lynn was at that time) were all outside playing around and going in and out of the house as kids do. During that time, a newspaper man came to visit my grandfather. My grandfather, being the serious businessman that he was, instructed us to all go inside the house. We all did, including me with my roller skates on. We were close to the door, for some reason, trying to listen to what they were talking about on the porch. Suddenly, my sister pushed me outside onto the porch and the rest of the kids' clan followed.

If you know my grandfather, you can imagine my his first response--he reached for his belt. Me, being the oldest of the kids' clan, I did what one would do in that situation--I ran (or skated)! I jumped off the porch, landed on the walkway, jumped onto the grass/dirt and proceeded to run around towards the back of the house. The rest of the kids followed me and my grandfather brought in the rear with belt raised in the striking position for all of us to see. Once I realized that there was a buffer of kids between the belt and I, my panic switched to humor--the scene was actually quite funny. My grandfather had good stamina and no problem chasing anyone around the house numerous times. So around and around we went. Finally, I made my great escape--I jumped back onto the walkway and porch and ran in the house. Soon others followed. The lone runner still hanging in there was Perch. I'm not quite sure why he kept running. I think that eventually he thought that it was funny too and wanted to see who would last longest. The rest of us made it to the window and/or door to watch the race. I can't remember exactly how it ended--I suspect that my grandma saw the chase and said "John, leave that boy alone," and it ended some time after that.

My grandfather was well into his late 60s but he didn't give up. He stopped not because Perch outran him, but because my grandmother intervened. I often wonder if at some point my grandfather thought it was funny too.