It was May 11, 1963. Saturday morning. Mom, Kathy, and I lived in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Mom was 26, Kat was 6, and I was 7--almost 8. Our landlady, June Terrell, knocked on the front door and on the windows. She had sad news for us: dad's mother, Jewel Davis, died that morning in the hospital in Andalusia, Alabama. Dad was in the Navy and was stationed overseas. Granny's was the first funeral I had ever been to. I couldn't understand all the strange faces at Good Hope Primitive Baptist Church. They held Granny's wake at her parents, Winfield and Jessie Smith. That waa sixty years ago. I remember them removing her violet casket from the church to the hearse to the graveside. And, in the years since, have had flashbacks of that when at the graveyard at Good Hope. I have few memories of Granny; I remember what a good cook she was. She was a wonderful cook. I especially remember her sugar cookies, caramel cakes, and buttermilk biscuits. You could look at me back then and know there wasn't much I didn't like. She even made a fudge sauce for the biscuits. I think that was a Davis creation. They had well water and it was SO good; I haven't had any water exactly like that, but I'd know it if I tasted it. I guess this is it for now.
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