My Grandma B., nee Myrtie Mae Edwards, shown whooping it up more than I ever knew she could. On the back of the picture is the note,”Taken at Daytona Beach” . The only beach I ever thought she went to was Buckroe Beach but maybe she was cutting loose at Bike Week. She was a person who’s timidity bordered on paranoia. She made my Grandfather drive at least ten MPH below the speed limit, (she never learned to drive, too scared) and she was afraid, while being driven around, that passing small aircraft would crash into the car. When I was little she told me to latch the little gate in the backyard on Rosewood Ave. so that “the ni–ers wouldn’t come in and “get us”. She also told me to stop peeing in the backyard because “people would think we were from the country”. When I was about eight years old I was looking at pictures in National Geographic of barebreasted African tribal women with their pendulent dugs when, without a thought to my presence, she reached into her blouse and pulled out one pendulous dug to readjust it. I realized that the strange undergarment hanging on the clothesline known as a brassiere actually kept women’s breasts in the upright position. It was only years later when my hormones led me to direct discovery that this erroneous notion was pleasantly dispelled. Grandma B. called me over to her rocking chair a few months before she died and told me, “I went through life with my brakes on, don’t let that happen to you.” I promised I wouldn’t and I guess that was one promise that I really kept.
big K
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