Writer’s Column: In Search of the Granny Woman
Writer's Column March 1, 2018
The notion for this column surfaced months before I began writing in Towns County for FetchYourNews. I like to think I somehow wished it into existence.
It was a sweltering spring day in 2017, the kind of afternoon that almost made me miss the winter. I was sitting in front of a local store, selling raffle tickets for a youth’s charity, when I noticed an elderly woman slowly making her way down a side street hill. She wore her hair hidden beneath a thin kerchief, a pale pink curler peeking out above her forehead. She was slight in stature and seemingly frail, a tightly gripped cane used to steady her steps in one hand, a bright green bag clutched in the other. I watched for what seemed like an eternity as she turned the corner into lot, gradually making her way toward where I was stationed.
Miss Maggie, a lifelong resident of Towns County
“What are you selling?” she asked upon approach, the etched wrinkles on her face moving in sync with her words. I briefly explained as she eyed the jar of lollipops I had brought along, hoping to distract children as parents scratched their names and numbers on trails of ticket stubs.
I had an inkling that this was no ordinary woman. I introduced myself and learned her name was Maggie. I began asking small-talk questions, prompting the lifetime local to offer the insight I suspected all along. “I’m what they used to call a Granny Woman. You probably don’t know what that is. I helped heal the sick and birth the babies back in the day,” Miss Maggie chimed.
Oh, I was all too familiar with the term. I had been on a quest to find an Appalachian Granny Woman for quite some time, spurred by my love for tradition, a fascination with folklore, and my hopeless determination to learn the identity of every useful plant growing wild in the woods.
In the olden days, when doctors were scarce and residents often had to travel through rugged terrain for medical treatment, Granny Women were called upon to tend to injuries and maladies. These wise women knew which herb, root, or bark would aid in recovery. In the 1800s and into the next century, the lay-midwives assisted in nearly half of all the births of babies born in southern Appalachia.
“Where do you live?” I nearly demanded, glancing in the direction from which she had come. “I would love to sit and talk sometime! I would love to hear your stories!” I realized I seemed overzealous so I added a reason for my request, “I’m a writer and I’m interested in what you have to say.”
“I live up yonder,” Miss Maggie offered, nudging her head toward the hill. “A writer, huh? Are you going to make me famous?” she asked with a grin, her blue eyes twinkling in the sun’s glare. I paused for a moment. I wasn’t that sort of writer, simply a novice who enjoyed the craft for the sake itself. “Who knows? I just might someday,” I spouted.
I watched as my new friend peered at the lollipops a second time. “Open your bag,” I instructed, grabbing a handful of candy to toss inside. “I’ll be happy to bring you sweets – pies or jams – in exchange for your time,” I bribed. The thought brought a smile to Miss Maggie’s face. “Come on up and visit someday,” she offered as we parted ways.
“She won’t remember you,” the woman seated beside me said, braving the heat to help raise needed funds. “That’s alright,” I replied. “I’ll remember her.”
And so I did. It wasn’t long after that day in May when I began asking around, hoping to learn which house was hers. The folks I approached weren’t certain where “up yonder” was although they knew exactly of whom I was referring. I reminded myself that most ventures worthwhile are worth the wait, sending up silent prayers that old Miss Maggie would remain in good health in the meantime.
Seasons passed and Miss Maggie crossed my mind whenever I dreamt of days gone by in these mountains that I love, always hoping and expecting for our paths to meet again.
A year yet a few months shy of that spring day, the weather pleasant enough to forget it was still February, I rested on a bench outside of that same store.
Times had changed. I was now a bonafide journalist. I had meetings to attend, news to report, deadlines to meet. My chief editor had recently suggested that I begin a column on a theme of my choosing, hoping to retain my creativity after many months spent relaying “just the facts.” I knew without hesitation that I wished to write about the days gone by in Appalachia, an attempt to keep antiquity alive.
I was mulling over thoughts for my first article when I saw Miss Maggie for a second time, making her way toward the hill that lead to her mystery home. I sprung to my feet and raced to her side, offering to carry the same green bag, now heavy with purchases, that I had once filled with lollipops. The short walk lasted long as I slowed my typically rushed pace to match her crawl. Miss Maggie spoke of growing up on nearby Scataway Road and how she would paint her fingernails with poke berries she gathered, the potatoes she planned to fry for that night’s supper, and the finicky stray cats who live beneath a neighbor’s porch.
We leisurely made our way to her well-kept yard, a stone’s throw distance from the store itself. I perched the bag on her front porch and asked if I could perhaps return another day, when I had more time to chat. “I sure hope you do,” the Granny Woman smiled, leaning in for a hug. “I will bake a cake to bring along,” I promised.
“Do you remember meeting once before?” I asked, an afterthought as I turned to leave.
No, she couldn’t recall. But that was alright; I remembered her.
1 Comment
Awe I just loved this story!! Such a blessing! Thanks for sharing.