“Mornin’, Grandma Rose”
By Nathaniel Dunn
Every Sunday morning was greeted by the smell of morning breakfast, the sound of gulping running water, or the soft-quivering mumbles of daily prayer, sometimes followed by a deep yawn or the movement of gliding house slippers on a rough, carpeted floor. I was reminded of those typical mornings because it was almost like every morning, like when seasons acclimate to fall, winter, spring, and summer. You would have never known the difference in those mornings unless something unusual or out of the ordinary happened, like when summerlike weather occurs if it was expected to be cold or when you have thirty-degree weather in the late weeks of June. My grandmother, Rose, had become accustomed to the habits of having a daily routine, by keeping herself occupied, committing to a healthy, balanced diet, and organizing everything she had owned.
On September 27, 1921, my grandmother, Rosa J. Dunn, was born in Lenoir County, Kinston, N.C., to her late father, Mr. Uzzell Jones, and her late mother, Mrs. Annie Newkirk Jones, who both formerly worked as sharecroppers. She was birthed around the Progressive Era (1896-1932), when there was a widespread of “social activism and political reform” in the United States; had lived to watch the civil rights movement (1954-1968); had become a widow after the death of her late husband, Mr. Thomas E. Dunn (1924-1978), who served in WWII and taught driver’s education, along raising three children: Evelyn, Ricky, and Susan; and was politically active in voting since former President Franklin D. Roosevelt, around 1942.
I had finally taken my seat at the breakfast table. My shirt and tie were tucked and fixed, my elbow and hand had supported my fussy, don’t-bother-me posture, my cares had gone out the window, yet my grandmother, Rose, often expressed this soft, warm, inviting, bright, ebullient smile. What was her secret to a life of longevity? Had she measured her words carefully through prayer? Did she hope to become an influence to those around her? I wondered.
My grandmother, Rose, would occasionally reminisce about her upbringing, reflecting on her childhood, or talking about the expectations that her parents deliberately upheld within their family. I recall the story that she mentioned about “falling into a well – a hole in the ground about ten to twelve feet – around eight years old, using all of her might to courageously climb out,” as she shouted and wailed for someone to help rescue her. There were also stories that included my great grandparents: “My mother, Annie, and father, Uzzell, took no nonsense,” she said. “They expected us [their children] to rise early in the mornings and return home when we saw the streetlights.” These stories were told repeatedly; after a while, I could almost recite or imitate a few of those stories she told in her heavy-sounding voice. When I think about it, my grandmother and I incomparably lived two separate lives because my parents didn’t carry out those same demands.
As I had imagined, I would have never told my grandmother, Rose, about the serenity or calm feeling that filled every corner of her home. I would have never mentioned that her embrace got me through a tough school week. I would have never warmly greeted her with the happiness that she had, oftentimes, deserved with little reason behind it. Though my grandmother now cannot recall any of this, it is my wish that she somehow senses my endearing love for her. Indelibly, I remember, far too well, awakening to those glorious mornings at my grandmother’s house.