HEALING IS OUR RESPONSIBILITY
HIGH POINT, N.C. 1963-64
Grandma was a strong, spirited lumberjack of a woman with a booming voice and wicked backhand that could sting your face for hours. After braiding her long, gray hair, she knotted it up in a scarf around her head that matched her imitation pearl cat-eyeglasses. Her clothes were fabric scraps she hand-sewed into a hodgepodge of garments that loosely covered her ample frame. Other accessories included yard shoes with toe holes, her butterbean gardening hat, and a set of chipped dentures her dog had gotten ahold of, leaving them riddled with canine teeth marks and one less tooth for Grandma.
Grandma rented an old, rundown property off highway 62, surrounded by oak trees and thousands of flowers, plants, and creeping ivy vines. Over time, her house reminded me of the old witch’s place in the Hansel and Gretel story, minus the cookies and candy. The first thing you felt when approaching were thick waves of suffocating heat smacking the life from your body.
