Summers With Our Mothers’ Mothers

Bria and Grandma Ella Mae; Katura and Mimi

On Threads sometime in July, someone asked “where did you summer?” This was after Ralph Lauren dropped their new Oak Bluffs collection, a campaign that prompted a lot of conversation about Martha’s Vineyard, Black folks, and vacation.

Some of the comments on that thread were judgey. But then there was another post — about spending summers with grandma. Which, for many of us, was the answer to the original question.

And the replies were everything. Watching “In the Heat of the Night.” Showered and dressed by 6:30 am. Tearing up Burlington and JC Penney. Setting grandma’s hair with rollers. No rules. 50-11 rules. Good food. Quality time.

Simpler times…

Portsmouth, VA with Mimi

I spent a lot of summers in Portsmouth. Sometimes it was with my parents and brother. But my strongest memories are of when it was just Mimi and me. I don’t remember details of getting there, though I’m sure my parents drove and dropped me off. But I have vivid memories of being there. Pressing the button on the garage door opener from my seat in Mimi’s car. Beelining to her bedroom to select a new polish from the dozens of bottles that sat on her dresser. Helping cook dinner at night, and sneaking extra sugar to put on my grapefruit in the morning. Mimi had grapefruit spoons, which was the only reason I even wanted to eat grapefruit in the first place. 

First and fifth visit to Mimi’s. Missing teeth in both.

During the day we’d go visiting folks, like Mrs. Gregory, her neighbor who in my mind was 100 years old, though I’m not sure Mimi ever told me that. Sometimes folks visited us — and I’d sit on the porch in one of Mimi’s white metal rocking chairs, listening just enough to be polite but also being sure to stay out of grown folks’ business. We’d clip coupons and grocery shop together, then go to the ice cream shop on High Street to splurge on cups of peaches and cream. Mimi kept everything.  Old yearbooks, all of her children’s trophies, my mom’s homecoming court gown. We spent hours looking at old photos and talking about family. I had a hard time keeping the branches of our family tree straight. How are the Carters and the Watsons related twice, again? Mimi enjoyed reminding me. We went to the beach a few times. Went to church all the time. And at some point, I went home back to Jersey though I don’t remember saying goodbye.

Jackson, MS with Ella Mae

I can probably count on one hand how many summers my brothers and I didn’t spend in Jackson when we were kids. That drive from St. Petersburg, Florida, to Jackson became second nature. I knew it by heart—every stretch of interstate, every stop we’d make along the way. But it was always the Capitol Street exit that brought us back to life, no matter how long we’d been asleep in the van. The excitement would hit us all at once, like Christmas morning. And really, for us, it was Christmas in July.

Back then, you could still drive right through Jackson State’s campus, and from there it was just a few minutes to our grandmother’s house. We called it the “green house” because of the mint green paint, and that name stuck like everything else from those summers. The second we pulled up, we’d race up the front steps, barely giving her time to open the door before we were in her arms. She gave the best hugs—warm, full, and safe. I can still feel them.

Grandma Ella Mae at a backyard bbq.

Though my days were often filled with the kind of mischief boys dream of—racing go-karts, building forts, riding bikes until sunset—the memories that have stayed with me the most weren’t the loud, wild ones. They were the quiet, slow ones. Sitting with Ella Mae on the porch steps with a bowl in my lap, snapping beans or shelling purple hull peas. Walking through her huge garden, picking vegetables while she taught me what was what. Watching her pickle jars of okra and cucumbers like it was second nature. Eating grapes off the vine, always half-scared a snake was going to pop out at me. And the smells—God, the smells. Buttery cornbread, sweet pies, cakes fresh out of the oven. She was the best baker I’ve ever known, and she made me feel like I was part of the magic, letting me stir the batter or pour it into the pan like I was really helping.

Saying goodbye was never easy. It never is when a place feels like home. But even as we pulled away, I always knew—we’d be back soon.