Why Granny Smoked

by Troy Headrick

I'm sitting here thinking about my great-grandmother, my Granny, a woman who was born in the nineteenth century and died in the twentieth, at the age of ninety-two, mostly from terminal orneriness.

I've got a good, clear picture of her in my mind. She had sunken eyes and great moles on her face. She wore cat-eye glasses and dipped snuff until she traded that bad habit in for another-lighting up. She smoked her first Marlboro when she was in her 80s.

I used to go see her once a month or so whenever we had family get-togethers. We would drive to Georgetown, Texas, the sleepy town where she lived with her husband, my Granddad, a bear of a man who tottered around the house and never said a word to anyone that I ever heard. Their four children-Etta Merle, Sherman, Mavis, and Estelle-lived in little places not far away from Georgetown. By the way, Etta Merle, the eldest, is my grandmother, my "Memaw."

To this day, whenever anyone in the family reminisces about Granny, the first thing they're apt to mention is the greenness of her thumb. She took that special ability with leafy things and used it to turn the space around her house into a tiny version of the Amazon rainforest.

Because of the surrounding jungle, it was very hard to see my great-grandparent's house when we drove up and parked on the street in front of it on one of our visits. We knew it was back there somewhere, among the vines and things in the yard, if for no other reason than part of its roof was visible from our vantage point, looming up above all that foliage. Walking down the front sidewalk was like a trip through the heart of darkness. A machete would have come in handy as we made our way to the front door. I always expected some exotic creature, like a capybara or a tapir, to dart out of the undergrowth and run across the sidewalk in front of us. I can still hear my mom say, "Granny ought to have someone come in here and thin all this out some," as we walked along.

"But they like it this way," my dad would remind her. "At least she does."

When Granddad died, the family decided that it was in Granny's best interest to have her move in with her children. She spent a lot of time living with her eldest daughter, and because I spent so much of my young life at my grandmother's house, I got to know Granny a lot better in her last few years.

My grandparents put her up a bedroom toward the rear of their house. Two decades earlier it had been my uncle's room and hadn't been slept in that much after he graduated from high school and went off into the wide world. To help Granny feel more at home, they rearranged the furniture and brought in a slew of potted plants that she'd had in her own house.

One afternoon, after school let out, I was at my grandparent's home, just sitting on their living room floor watching The Big Valley, an old cowboy program. My Memaw was behind me, on her couch. She had her knitting glasses on and was going to town with her needles on a sweater she was making for my grandfather. She abruptly put everything down and said, "Do you smell smoke?"

I sniffed and then nodded my head.

The two of us got up and followed our noses back to the rear of the house. Granny's door was cracked enough for us to peek in, which we did. We could see her, sitting in a corner of the room, surrounded by plants, their outstretched tendrils nearly obscuring her from our view. We saw enough of her, though, to spot a cigarette dangling from her lips.

"Mother!" Memaw said as she pushed the door open. "What are you doing?"

"I'm smoking," she answered matter-of-factly.

"I can see that, but why? And where did you get those cigarettes?"

"Why not? Down at the store."

"When were you at the store?"

"Yesterday."

"I didn't know you went down there."

"I do a lot of things you don't know about, daughter. I may be old, but I'm not dead yet. You know, I can still get around pretty good."

Granny's newly acquired habit of sitting in her room and puffing away became the subject of much conversation in the family. My dad speculated that Granny was tired of living and had decided to take up a habit she thought might speed things along, so to speak. We all gave his theory lots of consideration.

One day I decided to find out for myself what the reason was. I tiptoed down the hallway and knocked on Granny's door. "Yes, who is it?" she asked.

"It's me," I said.

"Come in."

I stepped into her room and saw that she was holding the stub of a burning cigarette between her fingers.

"Can I ask you something, Granny?"

"Sure, honey, what is it?"

"Why did you start smoking?"

Granny looked directly at me. Her eyes seemed to suddenly light up.

"Because it's fun. That's why. Plus, it's something I've always wanted to do. At my age, a person doesn't get many chances to do something brand new."

"Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"Do you mind if I sit with you for awhile?"

"I don't mind a bit. I feel like having a little company just this minute."

I kicked my shoes off and jumped up on her bed.

"Now, what else would you like to know?" Granny asked.

About the Author:
Troy Headrick is a writer, artist, and academician. He currently teaches writing courses at The American University in Cairo.