Written by Michael Claxton
Something wasn’t right. I tossed and fidgeted, trying to get comfortable, but it felt like I was lying on a pencil. I was just about to get up, turn on the lamp and sweep out the bed. That’s when I found it. Not five minutes before, when she tucked me in, my grandmother had secretly clipped a clothespin onto my pajamas. I pulled it off and smiled. At 8 years old, it was my dream to be a magician, and I envied her crafty sleight-of-hand.
In 17 years of writing for The Bison, I can’t believe I’ve never written about Trixie. Coincidentally, between the ages of 5 and 22, I spent 17 summers with her. She lived in Nashville, Tennessee, and my parents lived in Atlanta, and how well I remember the drive up through the Tennessee mountains, anticipating what we would do this year and rushing to her kitchen to unscrew the Mason jar where she kept the marshmallows.
So many memories. Trixie drove an old, green tank of a car, sometimes on missions of mercy and sometimes on adventures. She had friends in nursing homes, and as a young boy I got used to being around older people, as she went to visit them, taking them homemade yeast rolls and strawberry jam, and chatting the hours away in pure kindness. We picked up Mrs. Davis every week for church, and Trixie taught me to open the car door and help her in. Mrs. Davis always called me “Sir Walter Raleigh.”
On the way home, we had a routine. I would beg to stop at the convenience store for a Slushy, and Trixie would say “no.” But as we approached the Starvin’ Marvin, the car would seem to develop a mind of its own. “It’s turning, and I can’t stop it,” she would frantically say, pretending to have no control over the Buick. Every time we pulled into the parking lot, I believed it was the car that did it, not her. I vowed to get a car like that someday.
It seemed that Trixie never stopped cooking. Her house had a tiny kitchen — she would have been amazed at today’s enormous kitchens with their islands and pot fillers and whatnot. From that little room issued the most incredible things. Fried chicken to die for. Milkshakes made with eggs. Biscuits baked with lard. (She kept a 20-gallon drum of it in the pantry.) Cakes every week. Fried pies covered with a sauce so good I still get giddy thinking about it. Eggs, bacon, fried apples and pancakes for breakfast. She even heated the maple syrup.
Mother claimed she was spoiling me and that when I came home after every summer, it would take weeks to undo all the damage. Trixie has been gone for 27 years, and I haven’t yet undone all the effects of her pampering. She was old school and needed people to spoil. Her 13 grandchildren were happy to oblige.
But she took care of everyone. She baked cakes for the mail carrier. And the lady who fixed her hair. And the garbage man. One time I was in her kitchen and saw her empty an aluminum can. Then she stuffed the can with a paper towel, wrapped it in a bag, put rubber bands around it and threw it in the trash. When I asked why she did that, she said, “Those cans have sharp edges, and I don’t want the garbage man to cut himself.”
Of course, it was unusual to see her throw anything away. Having raised five children during the Great Depression, she had her generation’s tendency to hang on to things. My mother once volunteered to help her clean out a storage room. They sorted stuff into boxes, including a full carton for Goodwill. Bit by bit, Trixie took items out of the donation box to keep. When it was all over, we gave away exactly three books.
When she passed away in 1995 at age 85, we found things that made us smile. She had old dresses folded with a note that said, “I can wear these if I get down to a size 9 — if they’re still in style.” When I gave her a large-print Bible, she wrote in it, “Michael gave me this in 1992. Didn’t need large print until 1994.”
I have all the photo albums she made for me and stacks of her letters. When I was in college, we wrote to each other every week. I have a picture of the last time we played cards.
Every year in early December, she hosted her large family for a Christmas breakfast. In her honor, we’ve continued the tradition for three decades. It’s next weekend. Everyone should be blessed with a grandmother who is your teacher, your biggest fan and your partner in crime. I certainly was, and nothing was better than breakfast at Trixie’s. Pass the syrup.
