Remember Rosebud by Debby Myers

I remember jumping up and down as Daddy tried to put my coat on over my Little Lulu pajamas. I grabbed my Mrs. Beasley doll and ran to the car. I was three and a half, and mama’s baby was coming. I was going to Gigi’s. It’s my first real memory. I treasure it today. Warm and fuzzy, and with my Gigi.

She was a walking, talking Southern woman. Gigi learned to cook as a girl. Two meals a day – rise ‘n shine at seven am and supper at four. Her specialties were Southern omelets, full of every vegetable she could find; fried chicken, cooked in lard, extra crispy; and three-layer coconut cake, made from scratch. When I stayed the night, she made my favorite "booberry" pancakes. She wore an apron she made herself bordered with rickrack morning to night.

I would sit on the Formica countertop watching while she cooked. With only an old box fan on the floor, she’d get so hot, she’d stand in front of the "icebox" and say, “Hot ‘nuff ta scald a lizard in ta a gizzard.” Gigi’s family had lived in the hills of Kentucky and farmed radishes. She said they were poor, and would sometimes only have chicken broth, oats, and radishes for supper. She was the oldest of eight siblings. Gigi said “Havin’ grub’s like livin’ in high cotton.”

As a kid, I tried to imitate her accent. I’m not sure I understood everything she said in her hillbilly way. But when I tried to mimic her, she’d giggle, and say, “Ya ain’t gotta speak as yer Gigi, but cha got da gumption ta give ‘er a shot.”

She never learned to drive. “Ain’t gonna fine dis ole southerner splattin’ on da concrete,” she’d giggle. She was content with being at home. She said it’s where women were

supposed to be.

“Mamas gotta look after youngins, Rosebud, no goin’ off ta work ‘til they grown. Nobody be carin’ fer dem babies ‘cept dare mama!”

She was the only person who ever called me Rosebud. Whenever I visited, I’d hear, “Rosebud, gimme some dat sugar ‘n let me hug yer neck.”

I’d play outside, and get dirty, just so she would put me in a tub filled with Mr. Bubble. Gigi had a big pink box and dumped it in. She’d say, “Gotta git you’s squeaky clean ‘n fine as a

frog’s hair split three ways.”

She’d sweep the floor with a cornhusk broom and then use an old rope mop and a metal bucket, wringer attached. When she’d finally sit down, she didn’t rest, she sewed. “Got britches ta be mendin’, Rosebud.” Gigi hemmed, patched, and attached buttons. She’s how I learned to sew the old-fashioned way by hand.

She had an old rocking chair on the porch that her brothers made. “Dem boys curved dis chair fer day mama,” Gigi said, “Dis chair goin’ down ‘n his’try.”

She liked to watch cars go by and try to guess where they were going. If she saw a car with a little girl inside, she’d say “Dat sweetie’s perty, but ain’t like me Rosebud.” Then she’d

give me some sugar and a neck hug.

Gigi had a stroke when I was twelve. She said , “I be movin’ into the 'old farts’ home.'” She didn’t know how to let someone take care of her after spending her life taking care of

others. She said, “They’s makin’ me feel higher den a Georgia pine.” The residents loved her and voted her Sweetheart Queen her first year there. Her only complaint she said “Who ‘n tarnation’s doin’ da cookin’ round here?” Gigi missed her cooking. I missed it too.

No one in the family could care for her at home, so Gigi lived there the next 25 years. She had her own room. My uncle hung shelves where she put her beloved dolls. My aunts bought her new clothes every birthday. Silky blouses were her favorite. At home, Gigi didn’t have fancy clothes or think about being ‘perty’. Her aide told her that was nonsense. She wheeled her down to the beauty shop each day, and they would fix her hair, paint her nails, and help with makeup. She loved bright red lipstick and earrings.

A year before she died, Gigi developed dementia. She got confused and didn’t know who anyone was. I became Flora, one of Gigi’s sisters. Dad said I looked like her. I was honored being her. I kept learning about Gigi’s childhood because she talked to me like I was Flora.

My last time with Gigi, I couldn’t hold back my tears. She looked at me and smiled. She said, “Bless yer heart, Rosebud, don’cha cry. Fixin’ ta fly up yonder ta da Almighty. Ain’t far.

One day you come too.” She pointed toward heaven, and in her last moments she remembered that I wasn’t Flora, but I was her ‘Rosebud.’ Gigi died that next September morn at 96.

Why did I decide to share this with you today? Last month, my Aunt Dot passed away. She was my dad’s sister, and Gigi’s last living child. Losing her brought me an unexpected, strong

sense of loss. My dad’s side of my family was gone. Sure, I had distant cousins somewhere in Kentucky that I’d never met. But none of them would have memories or stories of Gigi, her

family, or my dad. I realized with this loss it was now up to me to pass on what I knew about our loved ones and their stories.

Its why I’m sharing this with you, my children, and grandchildren today. One of my deepest regrets in this life is that I didn’t get to know more about them before they were gone –

Gigi and Papa, my dad and brother, my aunts and uncles, my cousin Charlie. I pray each night that I see them all again when I "fly up yonder ta da Almighty."

Debby Myers has enjoyed writing since she was a little girl.

In her spare time she directs plays for Ole Olsen Memorial Theater. She is a member of the Indiana Thespians judging high school theater competitions. Debby’s favorite pastime of all is spending time with her nine grandchildren.

Debby has completed three novels, “The Vee Trilogy.” Her books are all available now on Amazon or get a signed copy directly from her by contacting her on her Facebook page “The Vee Trilogy.”