GRANNY’S GONE HOME PART 1
Funeral Service of Lois Margaret Wiggs Walker
Home—this is a word that when used, it conjures up many emotions. It’s a word that we utilize often in our vocabulary, but it just has an understood meaning. It is one of those terms that when asked to describe it, you would struggle to reproduce a short, concise definition. Such a simple word, yet so complex. We hear such sayings as “Home is Where the Heart is” and “Home Sweet Home.” Others have offered quotes pertaining to the home:
Where we love is home,Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Homesick in Heaven
Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration. ~Charles Dickens
Home is the place where, when you have to go there,They have to take you in.~Robert Frost, The Death of the Hired Man
Home ought to be our clearinghouse, the place from which we go forth lessoned and disciplined, and ready for life. ~Kathleen Norris
Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to. ~John Ed Pearce
Home, the spot of earth supremely blest,A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.~Robert Montgomery
Home is where you can say anything you like cause nobody listens to you anyway. ~Author Unknown
I think “home” is a unique word, because inherent in its definition, the 5 senses are titillated. Taste, Touch, Sight, Smell, Sound. All of these senses are enlivened and stimulated in our memory when we think of home. Home is personalized. It has its own signature. Every person’s mental picture of home differs.
Lois Margaret Wiggs Walker is one whom God graced this earth with for 83 years and on Saturday April 21st, 2007 she went to heaven to be with her Lord, Christ Jesus. In a journal we have read over the past couple of days, Granny gives us much insight into her life. All of these insights point us to one clear fact—God made Lois Margaret Wiggs Walker to be a wife, a Mama, a Granny and most supremely, a homemaker. When we think of home, we think of her.
The taste of her home—my mouth begins to salivate as I think about the cooking of my Granny. Indicated by mine and the majority of your waistlines, we loved the way her home tasted. It tasted like your favorite cookie, which she would prepare for you and put in the Tupperware container above the fridge. My cookie of choice was Snicker Doodles. Maybe yours were chocolate chip or icing cookies. Some of you, not me, taste the overwhelming sweetness of Peanut Butter candy that was to be found hidden somewhere in the kitchen by the first person to get their hands on it. It tasted like Lemon Ice Box Pie, Chess Pie, Pumpkin Pie, Gooey Butter Cake, Banana Pudding, and Lemon Pound Cake.
It tasted like huge Easter and Thanksgiving spreads that all the family enjoyed and she loved to prepare. It tasted like round steak and gravy, roast, raw dressing and Hamburgers on Saturday Night.
If something burned, it was Papa’s fault because he hadn’t properly fixed the oven. Her honest children would always tell her when something wasn’t fixed just exactly right. Honesty is a kind word describing a quality that all of her 5 children possess. Some might call it anal Bluntness. There was always the prodding of Granny about something in her kitchen. Whether it was the ice that tasted and smelt like onions or the freezer in the Car Port Storage room that contained food left over from the Kennedy administration, we always managed to poke at her passion in the kitchen. In a journal that possesses questions about her life, she comments that as a young girl, she was expected to learn how to cook and was taught this by her mother Lois. She said that her favorite foods were Roast Beef with Vegetables and Pumpkin Pie. It’s funny how I did not know that. She was always to busy fixing our favorite meals. In a section that describes our family’s holiday traditions, she writes “we celebrate Thanksgiving with a huge dinner and with as many family members as possible.” She writes that her favorite part of Easter was going to Church together all dressed up. I remember as a kid the torture of standing in front of the red brick house in the elements trying to stand still for an Easter Sunday photo. Uncle Jim was always the volunteer to take the large group family photo. When I was a kid, I thought it was because he was the outlaw, now I know it was because he was the smartest one of the bunch.
The touch of her home—The touch of Granny’s home was very distinct as well. It felt like her hand grabbing your face as she would kiss you when entering the front door for a visit. The touch was of the fur of numerous mean and annoying cats loved and owned by Granny through the years and the feel of your tongue as you would remove the feline hair from it when sitting on Scooter’s blanket. There was Scooter, Shyster, Winkie, maybe a Blinky. All in my life time, her cats loved her and hated me. Her home felt soft as the furniture was worn just right. It felt like cold tile floor on bare feet playing tournaments of ping pong and pool. It felt like the grass of the long back yard where the culmination of ballgames of all sorts played in it, add up in years. It felt like fabrics and threads and thimbles as Granny labored over Easter outfits, and sweaters and Donald duck Halloween costumes, and baby dresses. It felt like a Mom or a Granny scratching your feet or back in the den or in the bed before sleep time. It felt like the warmth of her lap as you sat with her in her recliner and she read stories from the book rack or from the Bible.
The sight of her home—Granny’s house wasn’t ever on the cover of Southern living, it wasn’t a repository of antiques, and it never was filled with the latest home styles and fashions. It always looked like home. The walls are lined with pictures of all of her babies and grandbabies. The refrigerator is covered with silly magnets and artwork and funny photos of all of you. Throughout her house were trophies won by us, and honors we had received or Christmas gifts that we had given her for the home. Her décor of choice was practicality and comfort. Her aim was to create a place to raise 4 boys and girl, not to be a socialite or to impress visitors. You would see in her home windows peering down into the long back yard where she spent hours watching and delighting over her family. It has the appearance of invitation. Everything is arranged so as to maximize the opportunity to have as many family members present as possible. The walls were lined with comfortable couches and chairs and a long dining room table was sufficient to put many feet under it. You would see the hustling and bustling of 5 kids preparing for church a TV. with as the World turns, or the Cosby Show, or an Atlanta Braves Baseball Game, or the nightly news. You would see a house that reflected one fact about her life—it was always more about you than about her. It was always about your preference or Bill Walker’s, rather than hers. This is the sight of Margaret Walker’s home.
The smell of her home—They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory, and if I told you all to think of how it smells, all of you could do it. It smelled of food and family. It reeked of Charlie Perfume, Old Spice, and Kodiak smokeless tobacco that she despised for W.K. to put in his lip. It smelt like Pert Plus Shampoo and Ivory soap from the shower. It smelt like matches being lit from a bathroom occupied by five men in the house. All of the activity and cooking produced a fragrance that made you glad to be home
The Sound of her home—The Walker home sounded very loud at times. There were ball games blaring on the TV. or John Ward’s voice on the radio. There were siblings yelling at one another and grandkids running to granny to mediate between disputes. We heard birds chirping out of the windows in the morning and the sound of salad shooter preparing for a meal. We could hear her infectious laughter that evoked tears down her wrinkled face or the creaking of her reading lamp being positioned to read her Bible, or T.V. Guide or the Tennessean. There was the sound of pitter-patter as kids ran around the house and then Granny’s voice as she would tell us to “be sweetly” or to stop running or throwing ball in the house. There was the sound of the wind whistling through the willow tree as she swung in her front yard swing and the sound of the washer and dryer as she did countless loads of laundry through the years.
When we think of Granny’s home, all of our senses come to life and memories flood through our minds. This entire environment made Granny’s home a special place, but what made it what it was was the heart and soul behind it—Margaret Walker.
Funeral Service of Lois Margaret Wiggs Walker
Home—this is a word that when used, it conjures up many emotions. It’s a word that we utilize often in our vocabulary, but it just has an understood meaning. It is one of those terms that when asked to describe it, you would struggle to reproduce a short, concise definition. Such a simple word, yet so complex. We hear such sayings as “Home is Where the Heart is” and “Home Sweet Home.” Others have offered quotes pertaining to the home:
Where we love is home,Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Homesick in Heaven
Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration. ~Charles Dickens
Home is the place where, when you have to go there,They have to take you in.~Robert Frost, The Death of the Hired Man
Home ought to be our clearinghouse, the place from which we go forth lessoned and disciplined, and ready for life. ~Kathleen Norris
Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to. ~John Ed Pearce
Home, the spot of earth supremely blest,A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.~Robert Montgomery
Home is where you can say anything you like cause nobody listens to you anyway. ~Author Unknown
I think “home” is a unique word, because inherent in its definition, the 5 senses are titillated. Taste, Touch, Sight, Smell, Sound. All of these senses are enlivened and stimulated in our memory when we think of home. Home is personalized. It has its own signature. Every person’s mental picture of home differs.
Lois Margaret Wiggs Walker is one whom God graced this earth with for 83 years and on Saturday April 21st, 2007 she went to heaven to be with her Lord, Christ Jesus. In a journal we have read over the past couple of days, Granny gives us much insight into her life. All of these insights point us to one clear fact—God made Lois Margaret Wiggs Walker to be a wife, a Mama, a Granny and most supremely, a homemaker. When we think of home, we think of her.
The taste of her home—my mouth begins to salivate as I think about the cooking of my Granny. Indicated by mine and the majority of your waistlines, we loved the way her home tasted. It tasted like your favorite cookie, which she would prepare for you and put in the Tupperware container above the fridge. My cookie of choice was Snicker Doodles. Maybe yours were chocolate chip or icing cookies. Some of you, not me, taste the overwhelming sweetness of Peanut Butter candy that was to be found hidden somewhere in the kitchen by the first person to get their hands on it. It tasted like Lemon Ice Box Pie, Chess Pie, Pumpkin Pie, Gooey Butter Cake, Banana Pudding, and Lemon Pound Cake.
It tasted like huge Easter and Thanksgiving spreads that all the family enjoyed and she loved to prepare. It tasted like round steak and gravy, roast, raw dressing and Hamburgers on Saturday Night.
If something burned, it was Papa’s fault because he hadn’t properly fixed the oven. Her honest children would always tell her when something wasn’t fixed just exactly right. Honesty is a kind word describing a quality that all of her 5 children possess. Some might call it anal Bluntness. There was always the prodding of Granny about something in her kitchen. Whether it was the ice that tasted and smelt like onions or the freezer in the Car Port Storage room that contained food left over from the Kennedy administration, we always managed to poke at her passion in the kitchen. In a journal that possesses questions about her life, she comments that as a young girl, she was expected to learn how to cook and was taught this by her mother Lois. She said that her favorite foods were Roast Beef with Vegetables and Pumpkin Pie. It’s funny how I did not know that. She was always to busy fixing our favorite meals. In a section that describes our family’s holiday traditions, she writes “we celebrate Thanksgiving with a huge dinner and with as many family members as possible.” She writes that her favorite part of Easter was going to Church together all dressed up. I remember as a kid the torture of standing in front of the red brick house in the elements trying to stand still for an Easter Sunday photo. Uncle Jim was always the volunteer to take the large group family photo. When I was a kid, I thought it was because he was the outlaw, now I know it was because he was the smartest one of the bunch.
The touch of her home—The touch of Granny’s home was very distinct as well. It felt like her hand grabbing your face as she would kiss you when entering the front door for a visit. The touch was of the fur of numerous mean and annoying cats loved and owned by Granny through the years and the feel of your tongue as you would remove the feline hair from it when sitting on Scooter’s blanket. There was Scooter, Shyster, Winkie, maybe a Blinky. All in my life time, her cats loved her and hated me. Her home felt soft as the furniture was worn just right. It felt like cold tile floor on bare feet playing tournaments of ping pong and pool. It felt like the grass of the long back yard where the culmination of ballgames of all sorts played in it, add up in years. It felt like fabrics and threads and thimbles as Granny labored over Easter outfits, and sweaters and Donald duck Halloween costumes, and baby dresses. It felt like a Mom or a Granny scratching your feet or back in the den or in the bed before sleep time. It felt like the warmth of her lap as you sat with her in her recliner and she read stories from the book rack or from the Bible.
The sight of her home—Granny’s house wasn’t ever on the cover of Southern living, it wasn’t a repository of antiques, and it never was filled with the latest home styles and fashions. It always looked like home. The walls are lined with pictures of all of her babies and grandbabies. The refrigerator is covered with silly magnets and artwork and funny photos of all of you. Throughout her house were trophies won by us, and honors we had received or Christmas gifts that we had given her for the home. Her décor of choice was practicality and comfort. Her aim was to create a place to raise 4 boys and girl, not to be a socialite or to impress visitors. You would see in her home windows peering down into the long back yard where she spent hours watching and delighting over her family. It has the appearance of invitation. Everything is arranged so as to maximize the opportunity to have as many family members present as possible. The walls were lined with comfortable couches and chairs and a long dining room table was sufficient to put many feet under it. You would see the hustling and bustling of 5 kids preparing for church a TV. with as the World turns, or the Cosby Show, or an Atlanta Braves Baseball Game, or the nightly news. You would see a house that reflected one fact about her life—it was always more about you than about her. It was always about your preference or Bill Walker’s, rather than hers. This is the sight of Margaret Walker’s home.
The smell of her home—They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory, and if I told you all to think of how it smells, all of you could do it. It smelled of food and family. It reeked of Charlie Perfume, Old Spice, and Kodiak smokeless tobacco that she despised for W.K. to put in his lip. It smelt like Pert Plus Shampoo and Ivory soap from the shower. It smelt like matches being lit from a bathroom occupied by five men in the house. All of the activity and cooking produced a fragrance that made you glad to be home
The Sound of her home—The Walker home sounded very loud at times. There were ball games blaring on the TV. or John Ward’s voice on the radio. There were siblings yelling at one another and grandkids running to granny to mediate between disputes. We heard birds chirping out of the windows in the morning and the sound of salad shooter preparing for a meal. We could hear her infectious laughter that evoked tears down her wrinkled face or the creaking of her reading lamp being positioned to read her Bible, or T.V. Guide or the Tennessean. There was the sound of pitter-patter as kids ran around the house and then Granny’s voice as she would tell us to “be sweetly” or to stop running or throwing ball in the house. There was the sound of the wind whistling through the willow tree as she swung in her front yard swing and the sound of the washer and dryer as she did countless loads of laundry through the years.
When we think of Granny’s home, all of our senses come to life and memories flood through our minds. This entire environment made Granny’s home a special place, but what made it what it was was the heart and soul behind it—Margaret Walker.
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