Ida Dell

My grandmother and I had a real mutual admiration society. We were

so close. In 1890, she was born Ida Dell Craft, in her parents’ home, in rural

Braxton County, West Virginia. Her husband, William “Doc” Pierson, grew

up as her neighbor, on a nearby farm. Since he died when I was only three

years old, I don’t really remember much about him. Doc was a traveling dry

goods salesman, for Guthrie-Morris Campbell. He drove to general stores,

all over the central part of the state, selling fabrics and other merchandise.

Back in those days, traveling salesmen were called “Drummers.” “Granny,”

as we called her, worked as a registered nurse at Memorial Hospital, in

Charleston, working many years, after Doc’s death. She never drove, so we

either picked her up at the hospital, when she finished her shift, or she rode

the bus home.

The two of them lived in Rosedale, then Sutton, West Virginia, before

settling on the West Side of Charleston, in 1921. They raised a son, Ralph,

and daughter, Betty, my mom, in a crowded little court, called Woodward

Court. It ran off of and perpendicular to Garden Street, which was brick-

covered, as were many of the streets in the neighborhood. The houses lined

both sides of the narrow walkway, which extended down the court, from

beginning to end. They were crammed together so closely, that the

overhangs from their roofs nearly touched. In between the houses, was a

small, three-foot space.

My grandparents’ brown, one-story, wooden frame house was typical

of the vernacular architecture of their neighborhood. Doc was a master

furniture maker, and built a woodworking shop behind their home, overtop

of the garage. The house and shop were connected, by a stairway, which led

up to the shop, and down to the back yard. After he died, the gray wooden

door to his shop remained closed, as if there were memories behind that door

too precious to be disturbed.

Being a devout Baptist, and the matriarch of the family, Granny set

the standards for much of what we children were allowed, or not allowed, to

do. Decks of regular playing cards, which were used to play poker, were

never allowed in our home. We couldn’t discuss our going to dances with

her, since she didn’t approve of such behavior. To me, the most fanatic rule

she had, was her ban on Root Beer, because of the obvious reason…it was

some kind of “Beer.”

My immediate family and Ralph’s family, his wife, Virginia, and

daughter, Joyce, visited with her often, especially since we all went to

church together. We spent a lot of time with each other at camp, and our

homes were only a few blocks up the hill from hers. When we went for

visits, we rang her doorbell, and waited at the front door. She pulled up the

blind, on the window of her door, and was always so thrilled to see us. After

she rolled up the blind, to reveal who was there, she threw her hands up,

raised her eyebrows, and dropped her jaw from excitement.

More often than not, when we went to her house, she was making

medical bandages to send overseas. This seemed to be her self-imposed,

personal mission. For many years, she tore up white sheets into long, thin

three-inch-wide strips, then rolled them tightly into bandages. These were

mailed overseas to missionaries, who were in dire need of medical supplies.

She was also active in the local chapter of the WCTU, the Women’s

Christian Temperance Union. It is the nondenominational, worldwide

women’s group, which spearheaded the prohibition movement. Each year,

they held a coloring contest at local grade schools. Among other things, they

held annual White Ribbon Ceremonies, at community churches. These were

for parents of young children, to pledge that they would never expose their

children to any form of alcohol.

Sometimes, when we visited her, she stood at her ironing board, for

hours upon hours, starching and ironing her crisp, white nurse’s uniforms.

After she retired, she ironed for other families. I’m sure she was only paid a

pittance for ironing their baskets of clothes, but was happy to earn the spare

change. Frequently, she washed curtains for other families, having to

measure them carefully, then stretching them back to their original size. She

used wooden stretcher frames, to keep the sheers from shrinking, as they

dried.

Granny liked to quilt, and many times had an enormous wooden

quilting frame, set up in her living room. She painstakingly made beautiful

hand-stitched quilts, to give as gifts. All three of us granddaughters received

a custom quilt, made especially for us. The quilt she made for me, with

large pink dogwood blossoms, is one of my most cherished possessions.

When I spent the night with her, it always looked so strangs, to watch

her sit at the vanity, and brush out her long gray hair. This was such a rare

sight, since she always wore her hair pulled up in a tidy little bun. She loved

for me to spend the night with her. Every time I came home from college,

she called and invited me to spend the night. Usually, I took her up on the

offer. I think that’s why we were so close. I was still single, unlike my

cousin and sister, so I could willingly give her quite a bit of my time.

She and I often sat in front of the dark, wood mantle in her bedroom,

and snuggled up next to the gas space heater. Sometimes, we watched her

favorite television show, “The Price is Right.” When I was in the fourth or

fifth grade, while we were visiting in her bedroom, she commented that I

had dirt on my knee. When she realized it was the dark hair on my legs,

from then on, she became my advocate in convincing Mom to let me remove

the hair, with Nair cream.

While we visited with her in the kitchen, she loved baking sugar

cookies for us. She often offered her visitors treasures, which she had

hoarded from the hospital cafeteria…assorted flavors of jellies. She kept the

little rectangular packages on a plate, and only got them out on special

occasions. Queen Elizabeth couldn’t have been more proud, to have offered

her guests exquisite caviar, than Granny was in presenting us with the

packaged jellies. She acted as if those were rare delicacies.

Even though we had given her an electric blanket one Christmas, she

preferred not to use it. She slept in a handsome walnut bed Doc had made.

He had hand-turned the tall wooden posts on his lathe. The mattress sat a

little higher than on normal beds. When we went to bed for the night, I

climbed up, to those icy cold sheets. The weight from all of those blankets

was so heavy, it was nearly impossible to turn over.

We always celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas meals at her home,

as we gathered around the large round wooden dining room table. Doc had

made the entire dining room set, with a tall china cabinet, wooden chairs,

and the large table. It had a leaf for the middle, to accommodate our big

family. Each meal was a feast of epic proportion. My favorite mouth-

watering dish, was turkey dressing with chestnuts. I liked to help grind up

the ingredients for the cranberry salad, shoving the orange peelings down

into the sturdy, metal, hand-cranked grinder.

At Christmastime, Granny had a small artificial tree, which she sat out

on a dark round coffee table. I don’t consider myself to be a materialistic

person, but some of the most cherished memorabilia I own, are from her

house. They are fragile, glass Christmas ornaments, which I remember

seeing on her tree, every year. I proudly hang them on our tree, every year.

One of my favorite things about her house, was the beautiful rugs she

had in her living room and dining room. The rugs in both rooms were

identical, and were so large, they nearly covered the entire floor. The tightly-

woven rugs had a handsome pink and black floral design. That has always

been my favorite color combination. I still love to see one of the rugs, in my

mother’s upstairs guest room, which we fondly call “The Shrine.”. Grannu

used to have us help her take the rugs outside, to help her clean them, by

beating them with paddles.

As a young lady, Granny was accustomed to washing clothes by hand,

out in the yard, using large wash tubs. So to her, a wringer washing machine

was a real luxury. For years, we watched Granny force her wet clothes,

through the wringers of her electric washing machine. On one occasion, she

caught her little finger in the wringer, smashing it. The machine had a large

round, white tub, and stood on fours legs. It sat out on her back porch, which

was enclosed with small window panes, serving as a greenhouse. She had a

beautiful display of large-leafed, magenta and purple coleus plants, and a

magnificent crown of thorns cactus plant. It was at least five feet wide,

occupying a large part of the porch.

One of Granny’s neighbors, Ernie, had an incredible green thumb.

Her back yard, was very visible from Granny’s porch and yard. It was a

beautiful palette of rich colors, from plants and flowers blooming all year

long. Granny never saw the neighbors on the other side of her house. They

were blocked off, by the big two-story shop and garage. We certainly could

hear them, from time to time.

These next door neighbors, frequently got into screaming matches.

Their domestic disputes always accelerated into throwing clay flower pots,

or anything else, within reach, at one another. When my sister and I heard

the screaming start, we hurriedly ran out the back porch door, and excitedly

tiptoed up the gray wooden steps, which led to the old woodshop. We

hunkered down, on the dusty landing at the top of the stairs, and with

outstretched necks, peeked down to her neighbors’ backyard. Staying

absolutely quiet and perfectly still, we watched, as the drama unfolded.

The neighbors were an elderly couple. He was short and stocky with

gray hair, and she was thin and spunky, with dyed red hair. Stage one of the

mayhem, was always loud screaming and swearing at one another. Then, the

real ruckus began. One at a time, they pick up an object on their patio, and

heaved it at their partner, as they let out a loud, primal scream. The wife

often ran into the kitchen, to fetch dishes and pans, for more ammunition.

The flying objects were hurled across the yard or porch with such

force and intensity, they surely had the potential of hurting someone. I never

knew if both the husband and wife, could never hit their spousal targets

because they were such bad shots, or if this was a case of deliberate misses.

Thankfully, their ability to duck from flying obstacles, far outweighed their

ability to aim at and hit their targets, with any accuracy.

These episodes went on for quite a long time. It was like watching a

Neanderthal version of dodge ball. Instead of throwing a red rubber ball, the

objects they used were loud, as they crashed onto the patio, sometimes

shattering upon impact. The couple was so completely engrossed in their

fight. They were totally oblivious to the fact that they had an audience, on

the landing above them, taking in their every move.

Granny was a stickler for what was proper, and was not one to

embrace change. She told one pastor at our church, that she thought it was

only appropriate for preachers to wear white shirts. He had shown up one

Sunday, wearing a pastel pink shirt at the pulpit. On the day I was to get

married, she called our pastor who was to conduct the ceremony, Reverend

Archie Snedegar, to ask him if he thought the wedding “Could be pulled

off,” with all of those men wearing long hair, in the wedding party.

One of the few times I remember her not being able to cope with a

situation very well, was when some of our relatives decided to attend a

different church. I never understood why this stirred up such a brouhaha

from her. As adults, they surely should have had the freedom to decide

where to worship. They seemed so enthralled with their new church. Still

upset about their departure, she refused to attend my cousin’s wedding,

because it was being held at a different church. Thankfully, at the last

minute, love conquered her stubbornness.

When my first husband, Doug, and I moved to Columbia, South

Carolina, Granny was one of the reasons I was so homesick and wanted to

come back home. A few days after we moved back to Charleston, my mother

called her on the phone one morning, and didn’t get a response. Doug and I

were staying with my parents for a few days, until we could move into our

own home. I volunteered to go down to the court, and check on her.

When I rang her doorbell, she didn’t answer, so I walked around to

her bedroom window. I could look in the window, and see that she was still

in the bed. I crawled through her window, and tried to wake her, but she was

completely non-responsive. Perfectly positioned in the bed, under the

covers, she was still breathing, albeit it ever-so-shallow.

She had suffered a stroke, and was taken to Charleston General

Hospital, where she never would regain consciousness. For three days, we

kept a constant vigil over her. We were clinging to hope, which started to

fade, with each day, of seeing no improvement in her condition. On the third

day, she peacefully stopped breathing, and was officially declared dead.

I always thought, that the way she died, was the perfect way to go.

There were no signs that she had struggled, and she never experienced any

pain. A few days before the stroke, at 82 years old, she was up on a ladder,

removing the leaves from her gutters. After witnessing many friends and

relatives endure such excruciating suffering, over prolonged periods of time,

I believe Granny was truly one of the lucky ones.

She was buried beside Doc, in a little cemetery near her birthplace, at

the Middle Run Baptist Church. There are at least three generations of her

family, the Crafts, and of Doc’s, the Piersons, buried on those hallowed

grounds. One of my favorite annual excursions, is to go to the little pristine

white church’s Memorial Day picnic, and decorate graves. That is a family

tradition we have carried out my entire life. Every year, the crowd gets

smaller, as the old timers have passed on, one by one.

The once bountiful, delicious spread of chicken and dumplings, baked

hams, deviled eggs, fresh green beans, and homemade breads and pies, has

changed too. There’s still plenty to eat, but there are not many ladies left,

from the older generation, who took so much pride, in preparing their

signature homemade dishes for the picnic. They have been replaced by a

younger generation, with different preferences and offerings: store-bought

fried chicken and desserts, humus and pita bread, and tossed salad. Even

though the food has changed, it is still one event, which I look forward to

every year.