In my early childhood, I lived with my grandparents off and on for a few years on a farm in Middle Tennessee. That was a glorious time.
It was decided that we’d move into town and leave the farm in my grandmother’s brother’s capable hands. Grand Mom, Miz Lena, they called her, was fast becoming a builder of homes and subdivisions.
A horrific car wreck a couple of years back had almost killed her. The insurance finally paid out, and Miz Lena took the money and bought a farm, which she intended to turn into a classy subdivision. Being in the city of Columbia, where she was building, was deemed imperative. For me, it would take some adjusting.
Miz Lena brought most of her house staff into town with her. Elizabeth, her head housekeeper of many years, came with us. I could tell Elizabeth and Miz Lena had respect for one another. My grandmother was as nice to Elizabeth as a white woman in the ’50s could afford to be. It was a different time.
Grand Mom never raised her voice at Elizabeth. There just weren’t a lot of “please and thank yous.”