Life Unfiltered - Blues, Boots, and Granny’s Porch 

         

                     Mrs. Louise Jones In The White Dress 

                            Holding The Black Clutch Purse

When I close my eyes and think back on my time in New York, it takes me somewhere. That part of my life was an adventure, and I would not change it for nothing. I got to be a carefree child, running wild, laughing loud, and just living. That is where that free bird in me really comes from. Some of y’all have heard me say that before, and yes, I mean it. I live my life my way, day by day, and I am grateful for the memories that helped make me that way.

I spent some of my best years at 51 North Columbus, and downstairs was Mrs. Louise Jones, whom I called my granny. Now, let me paint this picture right. My granny would be sitting there with that brown chewing tobacco, they call “snuff,” in her mouth, a can in one hand, a balled-up piece of tissue in the other, and all the neighborhood news ready to roll off her tongue. Nothing got by her. Nothing. She could dress up and shut it down when she wanted to, but I loved her just as much in her housecoat, sweats, and scarf tied around her head, being regular and real. That was my girl.

She loved hard, but she would also straighten somebody out real quick. I've seen her put folks off that porch before, and trust me, once granny was done with you, that was it. She meant what she said and said what she meant.

She had five daughters, but somehow I became the sixth. I was the little sister to all of them, and I loved every last one. They were the divas I could run to when I needed a break from all those boys in my house. We were more than neighbors. We were family. Straight up triplex family.

And listen, my granny loved the blues. That old soul in me? Yeah, I got that honest. I can still see her right now, shaking her head and two-stepping to Z.Z. Hill like the music belonged to her. Down Home Blues. Cheatin’ in the Next Room. Baby, that robe used to get too moving. Do you hear me? She was smooth with it, too. Like she was in her own little world, unbothered and untouchable.

 

The music around me back then was everything. Between my granny, my mama, and that whole block, I was raised on sounds that stuck in my bones. Tyrone Davis. B.B. King. The Manhattans. J. Blackfoot. Johnnie Taylor. The O’Jays. Koko Taylor. That music was not just playing in the background. It was part of the house, part of the block, part of the way we lived. And my granny used to sing that Wang Dang Doodle like she was on somebody’s stage.

After we left New York, I went back a few times to visit. But the last time I went back, I found out my granny was in an assisted living home. And I am going to be honest, that thing did not sit right with me. It hurt me. She had five daughters, and I just could not wrap my mind around her being there like that. I do not know all the ins and outs, so I will leave that where it is, but it hurt my heart all the same.

My older brother LC took me to see her. Now if you know anything about me, then you know I do not do well seeing people hurt, sad, mistreated, or left in a bad way. Children and elderly people? That will tear me up every time. So even before I got there, my emotions were already heavy.

I remember walking toward that activity room smiling, ready to see my granny, ready to hug her, ready to just be with her. But when I got to the door and looked in, I froze. Folks were just scattered around. Some watching TV. Some walking around. Some just sitting there, staring off. No life in the room. No joy in the room. And I remember thinking, My granny is not in here. Not in here like this.

Then I saw somebody sitting in a wheelchair by the window.

My brother looked where I was looking and said, “There she go right there.”

                                             Me Visiting My Granny In New York

I cannot even explain what hit me in that moment. I felt like the air had left my body. I walked over there slowly, leaned down to look at her face, and it was her.

And I could not even get my words out.

I was trying so hard not to cry, trying to hold it together, trying not to let my feelings take over. Then she spoke.

“I hear Boo, is that you?”

Lord.

I swallowed all that emotion down the best I could and said, “Yes, Granny, it’s me.”

Then she said, “You came all this way to see me?”

I told her, “Yes, ma’am.”

And she said, “I knew you would.”

Baby, that right there almost took me out.

I sat with her for hours. We talked, laughed, and went right on back down memory lane. She asked me if I remembered dancing around in my mama’s burgundy boots to Tina Turner. Asked me if I remembered how loud the train used to be going past the house on Columbus Ave. And for those hours, it felt like I had my granny back the way I knew her. I was not there to question anything or dig into family business. I was there to love on her, listen to her, and be present with her.

That was the last time I saw my granny, Ms. Louise Jones.

I cannot tell you exactly how long it was after that when I got the call saying she had passed. I just know I was at work when I saw a New York number come across my phone. I almost did not answer it, but it kept ringing.

When I picked up, I heard, “Boo, this is Nicole from Columbus Ave.”

I said, “Hey, how are you?”

And she said, “I’m okay. I’m calling to let you know Mommy passed away.”

Whew.

I just stood there. Quiet. Stuck. Trying to hold in tears, breath, pain, all of it. I was standing in that preschool classroom trying not to break all the way down. My coworker took one look at me, opened the bathroom door, pushed me in, and closed it behind me. Nicole was still talking, asking me if I was okay, and I turned that water on high and cried like a baby.

My granny was gone.

And even now, I am still grateful. Grateful she was part of my life. Grateful, she loved me. Grateful I got those memories. My life has not always been full of soft, beautiful moments, but I can truly say this: I have more good memories than bad ones. And that means something to me.

So yeah, this one is for my granny. For the music. For the porch. For the love. For the little girl in me who got to grow up surrounded by all of that. I come from women who loved and showed me how to do the same. 

Enjoy the music, and stay tuned for my Alabama Trip Blog.