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Granddad’s birthday Sunday Birthdays were celebrated in my grandparents’ tiny antebellum church in eastern North Carolina by depositing pennies into a designated tin box in front of the entire Sunday school congregation—a penny for each year. My grandfather, who was a closet poet, shared his birth date with a church member, a lady of his generation. Each year when they went up to drop in their coins, he recited an original poem to this woman for everyone’s pleasure. Everyone, that is, except my grandmother. I always thought she stayed home on Granddad’s birthday Sunday to prepare a special dinner for the family assembled to celebrate. However, I learned in adulthood that grandmother was annually angry with my poet laureate Grandpa. It turns out that she boycotted his Sunday recital because she was jealous of his birthday-mate. This from the lady who was so unaffectionate that she turned her head to be hugged or brush-kissed by even her grandchildren. I still wonder about the two double beds in their bedroom. They had five children. Linda D. Edwards,
Morganton |
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