MAUDE ELIZA ANDERSON
(1890 - 1983)

Ain't Maude/Grandma

I can't recall when this small dark lady with long straight black hair first came into my life.  It just seems that one day when I needed to experience unconditional love there, she was.  Her obituary states that she was born May 12, 1890, in Randolph County, Alabama.  She made the transition to glory February 2, 1983, while living in Hobson City, Alabama.

Fragmented tales of her early life seem to all revolve around the end of a hoe handle, i.e. chopping cotton, chopping corn, chopping peas, peanuts, etc.  Early fall brought on a break from the monotony of chopology for the flamboyant task of picking cotton.  I am not sure of how much schooling she had, however she read well, had good penmanship, better than average math skills and a keen sense of history.

Loved Her Some Papa

No matter how hard Grandma made her early life sound it was always spiced with an intense love expressed for Grandpa Ben.  In her eyesight, the man could do no wrong.  It has only been in recent reflections that I've noted that she seldom spoke about Grandma Maggie.  On the day that she summoned and appointed me the official historian of the Maudian branch of the Boyd family history she matter of factly gave me the names of Grandpa Ben's father and grandfather.  Her comments about Grandma Maggie were kind enough (kind person, quiet person, good cook, could have a baby and go back to the field the next day) but it was obvious from start to finish that Papa was to be the principal star of her past.

Her Joys! Her Gift! Her True Love!

Grandma's love for God was the ultimate attribute of her life.  She is the only person I ever heard sing hymns, exhort the preacher and actually shout while sleeping, shouting one minute and snoring the next.  Whenever I confronted her about this phenomenon, she became downright indignant insisting that she did not snore or talk in her sleep.  As it was with most southern grandmothers of that era, the church was a central focus in her life.  By the time I became a teenager, I was able to predict her whereabouts by taking note of the day of the week and the hour of the day.  Mondays 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. Mission Meeting in the home of one of the church mothers, Second Tuesdays 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. Willing Workers Club, Wednesdays 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. Bible Study.  There were dinner sales at the Lodge Hall every 4th Saturday to raise funds for the Eastern Stars.

Through the eyes of an admiring grandson, it appeared that the agape love that God had for her was a two-way street.  Phelia love was a different thing.  While she loved and cared for all her relatives very deeply, in order to really know her one had to understand how special Papa was.  The only time that her devotion to Grandpa Ben as the number one person in her life may have been challenged took place in 1911 with the birth of her son and only child, Artway (I as her grandson was a distant third).  She considered her son a special gift from God.  Neither she nor Artway ever spoke much of Artway's father.  I did learn that his name was Horace Brittan and by the time I turned twelve he was living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. 

The strong bond between she and Artway was a special one that lasted until his death some 66 years later.  The strong bond was one that Artway's wife was never comfortable with causing her to sometimes express outright resentment and hostility towards Grandma.  Not once do I recall Grandma striking back or responding in anger.  During times when there was an argument or confrontation between my parents, Grandma never sided with her son.  Instead, she always admonished him to take the high road.  When my mother would scold or discipline one of us kids in Grandma's presence if Grandma even looked like she thought about consoling or comforting us, Muddear would try to kill us just to spite Grandma.

Upon Grandma's relocation to Jenifer, Alabama she met and married Frank Anderson, an itinerant laborer and part-time sharecropper whose idea of wholesome recreation was to disappear with his paycheck on Friday, remain drunk all weekend and stumble home Sunday morning broke and sporting a mean hangover. The only words I ever recall Frank saying to me was "What chew looking at me fer boy?" Sometimes Grandma would become so frustrated over his drunkenness that she would take a switch and whip him like one would whip a child. Of course with him being six feet two, almost 200 pounds and hung over and she standing five feet three and only weighing 110 pounds she only succeeded in making herself tired. This venture usually brought out the worst of Frank's limited curse word vocabulary. However, to the best of my knowledge, he never physically retaliated. Finally God, Frank or either persons unknown decided to end Grandma's frustration. Early one Sunday morning someone found what was left of him after the 7:30 a.m. freight train that ran through Jenifer had cut off both his legs. We never found out for sure whether Frank got drunk and laid down across the tracks as a dare, laid down accidentally, or if someone put him there before or after he was dead. I still feel a little guilty about not being sad during his funeral.

One of my most humorous memories of Grandma took place during a visit she and Artway made to Hampton, Virginia while I was stationed at Fort Monroe. Prior to that Grandma had never taken a plane ride and had no intentions of ever doing so. My wife Barbara and I had invited Grandma to come and spend the summer with us. As I waited stiffly in my khaki uniform at the airport arrival gate with my two daughters who were filled with anticipation, this matronly lady in a chesterfield coat and her hat draped crookedly on her head, snuff running down both corners of her mouth, staggered towards us and exclaimed in her loudest voice, "Hey! Is these my grandchilluns?"

After directing them through the metal detectors and over to baggage claim I pulled my father aside. “Dad what’s with Grandma?” He explained that when they boarded the plane in Alabama Grandma was having a hard time relaxing, so when the stewardess came through the cabin taking orders for beverages, he ordered two martinis (martoonies) for each of them. The stewardess explained that there was a limit of twc drinks per person. After the stewardess departed to retrieve the drinks, Grandma asked Dad, “What’s a martoonie?” He replied, “Awe Mamma, it ain’t nothing but a soda pop. They gave it a fancy name so they could charge more for it on the airplane.” Neither Dad nor Grandma was aware that the two drinks would be poured into one glass. When the stewardess returned with two glasses my father being ever the southern gentleman gave them both to Grandma and waited for his to be served on the stewardess’ next pass through the cabin. Grandma took one glass (which was a double) and chug-a-lugged it, sat the glass down, licked and quietly smacked her lips about five times and immediately chug-a-lugged the second one. As she sat the second glass down, she said, “Boy! I believe you done made me drink some licker."” Anyway, it was very evident that Grandma was not feeling any pains when she arrived in Hampton.

 “It Is Good That a Man Be Found Faithful”

Running a close second to the love and affection that Grandma had for family and relatives was the devotion that she exhibited towards Will and Annie Mae Lawson and their family. If the truth be known Will and Annie Mae probably came before some of Grandma’s more distant relatives. For almost 49 years, she cooked, washed, ironed, kept house, and cared for three generations of foster children reared by the Lawsons. Annie Mae Lawson was wheelchair bound requiring Grandma’s attention 7 days a week. Living just 75 yards away, Grandma rose every morning at 5 a.m. went to the Lawson’s, and except to attend church or a meeting, remained there until after 7 p.m. each night. Many times, when I was on furlough from the Army, my only visits with Grandma took place in the home of the Lawson’s while she watched children or took care of other duties. Although the state reimbursed the Lawson’s handsomely for rearing foster children, Grandma’s pay consisted of meals and approximately one half of what was being paid to maids who worked in white homes.

The hardest and saddest day of my relationship with Grandma came on the day that my father passed away. When Dad suffered his first heart attack, I rushed from Virginia to be by his side. His physician assured me the heart attack was minor and full recovery was expected. So, after a week I returned to Hampton. When my mother called me a week later to inform me of Dad’s second heart attack, she also intimated that she believed that he was brain dead. A sudden calmness came over me and I did not rush this time. I pulled out my Army dress blue uniform, got it in order and went down into the basement of my home and played Aretha Franklin’s Amazing Grace album for about three hours.

Upon my return to Alabama, it was obvious that my mother had been right in her observation. At about 11 a.m. Monday, May 9th, 1977, I nodded permission for the hospital to disconnect my father from life support machines. After comforting my mother, sisters, and nieces, I headed to Jenifer for what I knew would be my life’s toughest task. Grandma was 75 years old, this was her only child, and chief source of support. Although my father had existed on life support for more than a week, she was not ready to let go.

Anger, denial, all of the stages of her grief were extremely severe. By Thursday, she had recovered enough to provide some strange input into the planning of Dad’s homecoming celebration. Grandma threw out a couple of strange names to be listed as aunts. When asked to explain, she merely clamed up. Here we go again, Mother and Grandma talking in circles and at each other instead of to each other. Finally, Dorothy Boyd stepped in and suggested that we go generic on the aunts (Dot could always “work it” in situations like that) and we somehow got through it.

The funeral was a blur. Between Grandma’s devastating agony and my mother’s poor health, I breathed a sigh of relief right after Grandma finished cursing Ervin (the funeral director) out.

Grandma’s will to live seemed to fade after that. We brought her to Atlanta to live with us, but it never worked out. I don’t know who told Grandma that it was I that gave permission to take my father off life support and I don’t think she ever completely forgave me for it.

In closing, I feel more than blessed to have had such a wonderful grandmother and look forward to seeing her in glory.

Bennie Boyd