Walzie’s Gramma was near 85 by time I met her. She was a feisty old gal; a very slight woman barely five feet tall and every bit of ninety pounds when soaking wet. I remember her always wearing flowered housedresses, a sweater, and fur trimmed snow boots (yes, even in the summertime). She kept her long, silver hair braided in pigtails, and if she’d donned a headband she’d have been a dead ringer for Willie Nelson. Tobacco juice dripped evenly from both sides of her mouth so we knew she was a level headed gal. She lived way up on the side of the mountain by Stover Station with Uncle Bruce and Aunt Lizzie.
Walzie was Gramma’s favorite boy. Sometimes, certain ways I look at him (especially if he has his teeth out), I can see Gramma (or is it Willie?). I think that’s where he inherited his packrat habits and hillbilly ways.
One muggy August afternoon, as Walzie and I returned from the store, we found Gramma sitting on our front porch. Now this lady lived about two miles down the road and ½ mile up the mountain from where we live. Oh yes, she was wearing her sweater and snow boots. Like a cow chewing her cud, Gramma’s puckered jaws were grinding away on a wad of chew, and in her leathered, bony hand she grasped a bottle of Paragoric (She claimed that she used it for medicinal purposes; Gramma reeked of the smell). One foot was tucked under her behind and the other rocked the porch swing back and forth.
“Leroy,” she screeched and took a swig from her bottle. “I’m tired and sick of those folks on the mountain. I’m movin’ in wit ‘ya.”
“Gramma, how did you get here?” I asked curiously.
“Walked. Got my clothes in this here Acme sack.”
“But, Gramma, do they know where you are?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. I’m runnin’ away from home. Gonna move in here, and I ain’t takin’ no fer an answer.”
Walzie and I gritted our teeth. We didn’t have room for a ninety year old lady, bless her heart. We had two sons and a bedroom full of chinchillas. (No kidding, we raised them supposedly for their fur, but when skinning time came, we couldn’t bear to do it. We had roughly 30 of the little furry critters in cages.)
“Well, Gramma, you’ll have to sleep in the chinchilla room.”
“Them little rats? Don’t care. They’s got to be better than the big rats I been living with.”
Just then our phone rang. It was Aunt Lizzie inquiring about her mother. We promised to bring her home just as soon as we could reason with her. Well, it took some coaxing and the promise of a Texas hot dog to get Gramma to agree to go home.
So we loaded our boys and Gramma into the pickup truck and headed off to the hot dog stand. (At this time, Texas Hot Dog was located in Pinecroft on old Rt. 220) Gramma insisted on riding in the back with the kids. With her pigtails flying in the wind, she looked like a Bassett Hound with its head out a speeding car window, and every time I looked back, she was sucking on her Paragoric bottle. Honestly, I’ll bet we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies. The only thing missing was Granny’s rocking chair.
At the hot dog stand, Walzie and I stood in line and then picked up our order. When we returned to the truck, Gramma was gone.
“Gramma had to go to the bathroom,” our son told us.
“Oh my gosh, there’s no public restroom here,” I said. “Walzie, you better go find Gramma.”
As I turned around, I spotted her squatting in the yard with her wrinkled grandma junk in full view. And she wasn’t just doing number one! What an embarrassing sight. Glad she belonged to Walzie, not me.
Unfazed, Gramma tidied up her housedress and shuffled back to the truck.
“Ya’ git me one wit onions?”
A red-faced Walzie lifted Gramma into the back of the truck where she settled between our giggling boys. She ate her hot dog and finished off the bottle of “medicine”. By the time we got her back to the mountain, she was feeling no pain. Gramma smiled sweetly as Aunt Lizzie put her to bed. I guess whatever had her riled got softened by the hot dog, or was it the Paragoric?
To this day, every time we go for a Texas hot dog, guess what we think of? And now you will too!
Walzie was Gramma’s favorite boy. Sometimes, certain ways I look at him (especially if he has his teeth out), I can see Gramma (or is it Willie?). I think that’s where he inherited his packrat habits and hillbilly ways.
One muggy August afternoon, as Walzie and I returned from the store, we found Gramma sitting on our front porch. Now this lady lived about two miles down the road and ½ mile up the mountain from where we live. Oh yes, she was wearing her sweater and snow boots. Like a cow chewing her cud, Gramma’s puckered jaws were grinding away on a wad of chew, and in her leathered, bony hand she grasped a bottle of Paragoric (She claimed that she used it for medicinal purposes; Gramma reeked of the smell). One foot was tucked under her behind and the other rocked the porch swing back and forth.
“Leroy,” she screeched and took a swig from her bottle. “I’m tired and sick of those folks on the mountain. I’m movin’ in wit ‘ya.”
“Gramma, how did you get here?” I asked curiously.
“Walked. Got my clothes in this here Acme sack.”
“But, Gramma, do they know where you are?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. I’m runnin’ away from home. Gonna move in here, and I ain’t takin’ no fer an answer.”
Walzie and I gritted our teeth. We didn’t have room for a ninety year old lady, bless her heart. We had two sons and a bedroom full of chinchillas. (No kidding, we raised them supposedly for their fur, but when skinning time came, we couldn’t bear to do it. We had roughly 30 of the little furry critters in cages.)
“Well, Gramma, you’ll have to sleep in the chinchilla room.”
“Them little rats? Don’t care. They’s got to be better than the big rats I been living with.”
Just then our phone rang. It was Aunt Lizzie inquiring about her mother. We promised to bring her home just as soon as we could reason with her. Well, it took some coaxing and the promise of a Texas hot dog to get Gramma to agree to go home.
So we loaded our boys and Gramma into the pickup truck and headed off to the hot dog stand. (At this time, Texas Hot Dog was located in Pinecroft on old Rt. 220) Gramma insisted on riding in the back with the kids. With her pigtails flying in the wind, she looked like a Bassett Hound with its head out a speeding car window, and every time I looked back, she was sucking on her Paragoric bottle. Honestly, I’ll bet we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies. The only thing missing was Granny’s rocking chair.
At the hot dog stand, Walzie and I stood in line and then picked up our order. When we returned to the truck, Gramma was gone.
“Gramma had to go to the bathroom,” our son told us.
“Oh my gosh, there’s no public restroom here,” I said. “Walzie, you better go find Gramma.”
As I turned around, I spotted her squatting in the yard with her wrinkled grandma junk in full view. And she wasn’t just doing number one! What an embarrassing sight. Glad she belonged to Walzie, not me.
Unfazed, Gramma tidied up her housedress and shuffled back to the truck.
“Ya’ git me one wit onions?”
A red-faced Walzie lifted Gramma into the back of the truck where she settled between our giggling boys. She ate her hot dog and finished off the bottle of “medicine”. By the time we got her back to the mountain, she was feeling no pain. Gramma smiled sweetly as Aunt Lizzie put her to bed. I guess whatever had her riled got softened by the hot dog, or was it the Paragoric?
To this day, every time we go for a Texas hot dog, guess what we think of? And now you will too!
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