Driving Mamaws Car

Memories of a grandmother whom I consider a friend.

I’ve learned that not many people are close with their grandparents. Maybe you make a few visits or phone calls here and there to check in. They may ask how you are and you talk through some general life updates, but typically it doesn’t go much deeper. Somehow, I got lucky enough to have a grandmother who really knows me, one who I consider a friend.

You see, I grew up living directly beside my Mamaw and Papaw. When my older sister was born, my parents decided to move back to the mountains and closer to my Dad’s family for support. My childhood home was originally my grandparents garage apartment, built into a house in stages by my Dad and a handful of others he hired on to help him.

Though I have few strong memories of my Papaw before he passed away when I was in second grade, I have a lifetime of memories with my Mamaw. Her sweet southern accent was the soundtrack of my childhood. She picked me up from school almost every day until I could drive. I’d look for that silvery blue Toyota Avalon and hop in the leather lined passenger seat to tell her about my day. In the fall, when all the colors lit up the mountainside, we’d be headed home on Interstate 40 and she’d remind me of how “blessed” we are to live in such a beautiful place. I’d stay at her house after school, doing homework on the coffee table and watching Yu-Gi-Oh! on one of the 6 available channels on her TV. It was the only cartoon I could find. She frequently made dinner, and we all 5 ate together at her house, my parents piling in after a long day at work to flaky biscuits and homemade applesauce. On warm summer nights we would sit on the porch and play dodgeball or badminton in the yard until bedtime.

She spoiled my sister and I rotten. We’d have sleepovers where she’d scratch my back to help me fall asleep and stay up with Aubrey talking. We love to laugh at all the times she would wipe our hands with a washcloth before breakfast, simply because we were too lazy to get up and wash them ourselves. “That’s what grandparents are for”, she’ll say, and we agree.

She only lied to me two times - Once about where we were going in order to secretly take me to get a flu shot. The second was when I was too afraid to pull one of my baby teeth out. “I’m just going to wiggle it a little” was what she said before she yanked that thing right out of my mouth so quick I couldn’t believe it. I see these stories now as examples of how brave she was, taking care of me in my times of fearfulness.

I like to think that she instilled some of that bravery in me, along with her quickness to cry at a heartfelt card and her strong female independence. She always told me not to marry young like she did and I obviously took that to heart.

During the year that my partner and I lived in Washington, my Mamaws eyesight declined to the point where she could no longer drive. Her vision has been on a slow decline, but the day finally came where it took her freedom too. When we moved home this October, I found myself searching for a vehicle for this next stage of my life.

I think about how uncanny the timing is; me being in need of a car, and my Mamaw no longer in need of hers. A bit of serendipity and sadness all packed into one, like most things in life seem to be. After a lifetime of car lines and flu shots and grocery store runs, her 2003 Toyota Avalon has now been passed down to me. 

It still feels a bit odd when I slide into the drivers seat instead of jumping into the passenger side. Now the steering wheel squeaks, the belts squeal, and the speakers bass buzzes. But, every time I drive around these Blue Ridge back country roads, I think of her. It’s not the car I thought I would have at 30, but I’ve come to realized that it’s actually something better.

Though I like to tell my Mamaw she has to live forever, to which she always replies with a laugh and a “no thank you!”,  I likely don’t have many years left with her. Because of that, I cherish the sentiment - I cherish taking care of the car that she used to take such good care of us.