It is grandmother’s silhouette that I vividly remember from my childhood days spent in her home, a home nestled in the woods in a small Louisiana parish. The sun cast a shadow of a tall thin female upon the wooden floor. As she stood in the back doorway of her house looking out over her garden, the sun glistened through her grayish silver hair, resembling sunbeams in motion. It was like watching an angel guarding the doorway to eternity. All good could pass through her and enter, and anything bad met her as an unmovable force and judge. As I watched her in the doorway, I could hear the crackling of the wood-burning stove, and the smell of hickory lingered in the air. It was the quintessential indoor campfire. The little potbelly stove was nestled in the corner but always remained the center of all family gatherings. It was where my grandmother allowed me to sit as close as I could to her and nestle under her arm. If you walked in on us, it would probably look like I were an extension of her—an extra appendage. She didn’t say much during the times she stood in the doorway. Occasionally she held a cup of coffee or the Redman loose-leaf chewing tobacco that she often indulged in a couple times a day. It was the only vice I assigned to my grandmother. If you have ever seen the end product of chewing tobacco, I think you would refer to it as a vice as well. Once she left the doorway, our day began. I often wondered if her time in that doorway was her time to commune with the Master and invoke the wisdom of our ancestors. Whatever it was this doorway time did for her, it was a routine, and she walked away from it with a plan and began commanding her day. As the shadow she cast moved, I skipped into the outline and followed her closely. Each story shared is a written expression of her love for me--you could say her shadow of influence. I invite you to stand in your virtual doorway and reflect as you read each story.
If I have seen further than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants. —Sir Isaac Newton
