My mother's mother always insisted that she be called "Grandmere." I don't really know why, since we are not French, but it is what she wanted to be called and apparently spent many long hours instructing her first grandchild (me) on how to say it. I guess I must have mastered it because it is what we all called her throughout the remainder of her life. She thought, of course, that our grandfather should be called "Grandpere," but somehow it came out "Bobby," and eventually shifted to become "Poppy." He was delighted with that and no further effort was made to Frenchify his title. For some reason I have in my mind that it is connected with the fields of poppies over the graves in World War One, but I think that must be a later memory imposed on an earlier one.
Grandmere was always very precise and wanted things done a certain way. I recall once talking with her about a planned luncheon. She had already made arrangements about who would sit where, what would be served and when. I was surprised to learn that the luncheon in question wasn't for another six months! Thus it is no surprise to learn that Grandmere was easy to needle just by upsetting her plans -- like the time she had come for Thanksgiving dinner and had the whole table set and the centerpiece just perfect when my father decided that the table required another leaf. Naturally the carefully laid plan was upset and Grandmere fit to be tied.
Grandmere was not overly religious -- surprising considering her upbringing. Mother Mac had been strict about the Baptist faith and had instructed her daughters never to work in an office because the men in offices smoked. Poppy was of a laid-back Presbyterian background and both became Episcopalians when Mother converted them. Grandmere was a faithful attendant at St. Mark's Episcopal -- at least until they started fiddling with the liturgy in the quest for modern relevance. On one occasion, as a member of the altar guild she had just finished putting the Fair Linen on the altar when a group of teens arrived to rehearse a chancel drama. One young female in hot pants so short and tight she had trouble sitting down, paused to put her can of soda on the altar. Grandmere complained to the priest who was watching with her at the back of the church and was told, "The young lady is here, in the church, and not out on the street." Grandmere thought that the street was exactly where the young lady belonged until she had finished her soda and was more appropriately attired.
I recall a visit to Little Rock in the early 1970s when Grandmere told me that her sister Edith had just been to see her and her sister Maibelle was expected the following month. "How nice for you," I said. "Well," she sighed, "I do love my sisters, but they insist on praying over everything. They pray all over my food, and my beds, and my flowers. It really is just too much."
When I was about 10 years old I was sent to visit Grandmere and Poppy all by myself. While there Grandmere was looking for something to keep me busy and she decided to teach me how to embroider. She gave me a piece of yellow cotton in an embroidery hoop and spent the afternoon showing me how to make the lazy daisy stitch. Once I had that one mastered she showed me satin stitch (with and without padding), running stitch, back stitch, and finally French knots. In later years, when her eyes failed her she sent her embroidery projects to me and I completed pillow cases, monogrammed handkerchiefs, and baby booties. After her death I received her gold thimble, stork embroidery scissors, and a cloth needlecase that Aunt Edith had made for her. They are among my treasures.
