Lisa Anderson

GPC Student

Rockdale/Newton Campus

Fall 2006 Symposium Essay Contest, Third Place   

Love Deeper Than the South

She was greater in years when I became her foster child.  She was a stout woman with great wisdom, although not very educated.  She had many children who flowed in and out of her home, but I was the exception.  I stayed longer than any of the others and became very attached.  My southern roots all stem from her.  We made our own traditions and to this day no one on this entire planet can hold a candle to her cooking or southern hospitality.  Her traditions live through me as if they are the very air I breathe. 

I can remember it as if it were yesterday.  I could be found on any given summer day, out playing in the yard.  I remember making mud pies out of the red Georgia clay.  I was always climbing trees as if they were lands far away.  I made my own houses out of broken tree limbs and displaced junk around the land.  There was a small branch that was the habitat of small fish, salamanders and crawdads.  I spent hours searching for them under rocks and leaves that had fallen into the branch.  Every day was a new journey for me. A new exploration, if you will.  I am glad I have such wonderful memories.  Some of my older siblings’ childhoods paint a much darker picture for them.  My darker days were much further down the road. 

After a long day of exploration and playtime, Mama would holler for me to come in and eat.  I can hear her so clear in my memories, “Time to come inside, and don’t slam the door!”  I never ate in front of the television, like most do today.  We all sat at the kitchen table for every meal.  I can close my eyes now and almost see the spread of mouth watering, good ol’ southern cooking only my mama could prepare.  I have tried many great foods in my lifetime since, but none like hers.  My favorite was her biscuits.  I can see her now pulling the flour bowl down from the cupboard, making her biscuits within the flour bowl, then returning it to its place.  Her biscuits were famous to all who knew her.  To everyone else she was Granny, and people always referred to how great Granny’s biscuits were.  They were cooked fresh every single day.   She made cooking an art, as far as I am concerned.  It was not a fancy art, but an art that had soul in it.  What is so amazing to me is that she never measured a single thing. You could ask how she cooked something and she just would say, “I put a little of this and a little of that.”  Like I said, it was an art.  What I would give now to sit down to Mama’s good ol’ southern cooking: collards, squash, fried okra, mashed potatoes, fried chicken.  The list can go on and on.  It was all so mouth watering good.

Being an older southern woman not only made her the best cook ever, but she had a certain hospitality that you don’t see much anymore.  She had a heart bigger than anyone I have ever known.  She opened up her home to so many children.  She helped her neighbors, her family and friends.  If she had it, and you needed it, it was yours.  There was no arguing with her about it either.  She did have somewhat of a stubborn streak in her as well.  She was so amazing.  I can remember her giving away her money, her food, clothes, or even articles from a paper if she thought they would touch someone.  But the greatest thing she ever gave was her love.

I have never seen greater love from any other human in my entire life.  I received the best from her.  She took care of me when I was sick, she fed me when I was hungry, she comforted me when I was scared.  Mostly, she loved me when I was abandoned.  We sat out on the front porch at night and sang her favorite hymns.  We watched the lightning bugs and listened to the sounds of nature, as we sung on that porch swing.  I would sit just as close to her as I could; it was heaven to me.  She did not have much in material things, but what she had was far greater.  She had unconditional love, and she gave all to me I wanted.  To some, this might be normal, but I have seen what love my natural parents gave, and trust me, there is no comparison. 

I was eventually returned to my birth parents, and was able to forgive them and love them as well; however, I always considered my foster home as my home, and my foster mom as my mom.  Even after I was placed back with my natural parents, I always went back home to Mama for every holiday and every summer.  I cried almost every time I had to leave her again.  I lost her a few years back.  She had just turned 90.  I miss her so much. I will always be indebted to her for the life she gave me.  She was my sweet, southern Mama, my refuge from a storm.  She will always be the best cook and greatest person I have ever known.  She is where I found all my southern roots.  She is my south.