My grandmother’s house in Lewisburg, Tennessee was situated at a kind of fork in the road. A road ran directly to the driveway which ran around the backside of the house and up the one side. At that road, you could go into the driveway or turn left or right. The road to the left ran directly along the front side of the house (the side we almost never saw) while the road to the right ran over and into another part of the neighborhood. The first two houses on the left of that road had backyards that ran into my grandmother’s backyard. In those houses lived Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran. Along with my grandmother, all three were widows for as long as I knew them.
Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran had lived in those two houses forever, just as my grandmother had lived in her house forever. Of course that wasn’t true, but they had lived there for as long as I had been alive and they had been widows for as long as I had been alive. As a tiny girl, I don’t think it ever occurred to me that there had been a Mr. Cochran or a Mr. Little at some point in time. Nor that Mrs. Cochran or Mrs. Little had families outside of my own. They were just Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran, as much a part of my life as my own grandmother.
Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran were always at family events at the house. Sometimes they were there the whole time, sometimes they just made an appearance. Christmas, Thanksgiving, other get togethers – they brought over dishes, sat around the table, told family stories as if they had been there (because they had!), and wiled away countless hours on that side porch with the rest of us. For that matter, they were even at family events that were not at my grandmother’s house. They were just part of the family.
Mrs. Cochran was the first to pass away. I don’t recall when, but I do recall the loss. Wondering what visiting to Tennessee would be like without her: the woman who apologized profusely for bringing store bought ice cream to a church ice cream social because her churn wouldn’t work. That is certainly not something a proper Southern woman would ever do, but of course she was forgiven. They just don’t make ice cream churns like they use to. Visiting wasn’t the same without her. I would look over at her house and resent whoever it was that now lived there. It wasn’t right. Some things just shouldn’t change.
My grandmother died in October of 2016. When Ed, Emry and I drove down from Pittsburgh for her funeral, we stayed with Mrs. Little. I had been in Mrs. Little’s house before, but mostly when one visited Mrs. Little you just sat in the old chairs in the garage (where the car was never parked). It was so gracious of her to put us up in her own bedroom, brimming over with Southern hospitality as she walked about with her cane and told us stories of when she was younger. I remember thinking how difficult it must be for her having outlived both Mrs. Cochran and my grandmother, but she mourned in private as any Southern lady does. She was always cheerful and happy as she fed us breakfast or asked us about our lives in Pittsburgh. Even though I hoped we could return on a happier occasion and visit with her again, I rather knew I would probably never see Mrs. Little alive again. Not when she would turn 90 a week after we left.
This weekend, my mom told me Mrs. Little has been put on hospice. She had been moved to an assisted living home in recent months just for her own safety, but she’s perfectly cognizant and full of memories. So, friends would come and take her back to her home just so she could be there to visit with people, and then take her back to the assisted living. She has cancer, though, and it’s only a matter of time.
I don’t know who lives in Mrs. Cochran’s house now. Someone bought, fixed up and flipped my grandmother’s home. Now the same fate likely awaits Mrs. Little’s house. One day I will take my kids to Lewisburg. One day I will show them the places I loved as a kid, the places my mom and dad loved growing up, the places that are a part of me…and so a part of them. But when I take them to see their great-grandmother’s house and tell them about her, and Mrs. Cochran, and Mrs. Little, I will cry...as I am crying now. An era has ended. A part of my life has come to a close. And all that’s left is the memories I can share with them.
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