My Addled Brain

Her name was Laura Glisson. She was my grandmother. Most grandchildren stick to standard familial names for their matriarchs; but for my brother and I, we knew her, always, as Sugar. As the figurehead of my father’s family, she had the two requisite traits of a Glisson: stubbornness and a love of southern soul food. It’s easy for me to think back to my childhood, and visits over to her house. Unchanged from my first memory until the day it was sold a few years back - a small ranch style three-bedroom home with 50’s style decor, muted green paint in the kitchen, plastic-covered furniture, a bathroom with one of those “heat lamps” that bathed the room in a deep red light (which I would turn on and pretend I was in a submarine at war), and a storage room behind the covered garage with a deep chest freezer (full of Pepperidge Farm cakes, a reliable back up when she didn’t want to bake a full cake for just a few of us) and an exercise bike.

I can still remember being fascinated with that bike. The front tire (and only tire, the back was just an inverted-T stand) had notches in it at regular intervals, which had either one, three, or five holes in it (the latter one having a rather large center hole, as compared to the other two). My early fascination with numbers can account for part of this interest - I used to ride the bike and stop briefly, letting the tire slow until stopping, and seeing which set of notches came up. I would “win” if it was a 5-notch. This could keep me entertained for hours, and explains entirely too much of my personality.

Food at her house was pretty much consistenly cooked using her cast-iron skillet. Butter and oil weren’t just ingredients at her home, they were their own food groups. Fried chicken, fried squash, and fried okra (something I can still taste to this day; a crispy, salty treat I would pile high and deep on my plate whenever it was presented - and still a favorite of mine). Hell, even her toast was fried in butter. Terrible for me, sure. But I have yet to have experience more delicious toast anywhere on this planet.

About seven years ago, Sugar moved from her home in the Tampa Heights area to a nursing home. She had begun forgetting things. Becoming confused. My father and his two brothers convinced her that it was the right thing to do. They moved her into a small assisted living apartment.

Her condition worsened. She lost her hearing. She slowly lost the ability to communicate - first her speech becoming slurred, then garbled. Then lost. She forgot who people were in her life. She often did not recognize my father. She always recognized me, however…but I suspect she was looking at me and seeing dad.

Sugar passed away over the weekend. Her funeral was yesterday. It was the first funeral I’ve ever attended - although I’ve lost other family members (Sugar was the last of of my natural grandparents), I was too young to attend. Before the service, I looked her over one last time. She was at peace - but with that same stern “don’t tell me what to do” look on her face, as if she were ready to let everyone know she’d go in the ground when she was damn good and ready. Oh, and that I was looking fat. (This was a common greeting for me in her later years. A hello, a hug and a kiss, and a general statement about my unacceptable weight. Love you too, Sugar.)

When she was moved from from the assisted living facility into a full-time care facility, nearly a year ago, we packed up her furniture. Among other items, I received her cast-iron skillet. I still haven’t used it yet. Part of me is afraid that I am unworthy of it - that I could never acheive the same culinary heights that I can recall from my childhood using it. A pretender to the throne. And part of me knows that by using it, I will be accepting that, at some point not terribly long ago, I lost Sugar as she slowly lost her ability to communicate; and ultimately, her mind.