In the mid-1990s, I made an unexpected friend. I was working on my documentary about John Henry, looking for old-timers to tell me what they knew about the legend. In the Talcott, West Virginia post office, I asked the postmaster for suggestions of interesting people in town. He thought for a moment and picked up the phone. A few minutes later I was on my way to meet someone named Mrs. Virginia Crockett.
I told her my name was Ginna. “Oh, that’s my name, too! My babies all call me Mama Ginna.” Her living room was filled with dozens of photos of her children down through her “great-great grands.”
During our interview, she read me a poem that she’d written thirty years earlier and had forgotten about till that moment. I was mesmerized. The poem ended up being the centerpiece of my program.
Usually when I interview people, I thank them and say goodbye. I don’t know why it was different with Mama Ginna, but we’ve stayed in touch ever since. Every year I’ve visited her when we go back to West Virginia. The first time, Molly was only about five. As Mama Ginna and I would sit on her porch, Molly would run down to the river and collect bugs. She’d reach up to put them into Mama Ginna’s hand. “Just don’t bring me no earwiggles,” Mama Ginna warned. Ten years later, Molly had to lean down to give Mama Ginna a hug.
I saw Mama Ginna three years ago in a nursing home. She’d had a stroke shortly before. Until then she’d always been proud that, even though her body was getting weak, she still had her mind. Not any longer. Still, during our visit she was alert and she knew us. We held her hand. She didn’t want us to leave. Once out the door, I fell apart, believing that would be the last time I’d ever see her.
I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. Yesterday, I picked up a photo of Mama Ginna that she gave me a few years ago.
I showed the photo to Eleni and said, “I wish I could see her just one more time.” Last night I laid out a jigsaw puzzle Mom gave me. As I did so, I was talking to myself: “Mama Ginna always puts all the pieces in little tin pie plates, by color.” She loves her jigsaw puzzles. She even has a few of them glued together and framed on her wall.
Mama Ginna died today. I just now got a call from B, who is married to Mama Ginna’s son Buck. “Buck’s having a hard time with it. Mama Ginna’s been spoiling him for 79 years.”
The Mama Ginna in California is grieving the loss of her dear West Virginia Mama Ginna. I’ll carry on her name with pride, and wish she knew that.
Mama Ginna’s poem was about her grandparents’ home place that was torn down to make way for the state highway. Here is an excerpt:
It broke our hearts to leave there,
But the state had other plans.
They were building a state highway,
And they had to take their land.My grandparents both are dead now.
They died with a broken heart.
The old home place they loved so well,
I am sure they never forgot.I go there every summer,
Just to fish and swim.
There’s no one there to greet me,
No home to enter in.I often sit and wonder
Just why it had to be.
But the old home place we loved so well,
Was more than a heaven to me.
Rest in peace, my sweet Mama Ginna. I will never forget you.
Oh, Mama. I’m so sorry. Uncanny, this sixth sense that you often have.
Oh, my. We knew it was coming, and she’s probably in a better place now, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I am grateful for the many fond memories I have of her, and that we had a chance for goodbye.
When I get home, I want to skim through the documentaries you’ve made, just to listen to her voice. And may I have a copy of that picture of her? I’d love to get it framed and keep it. And also let’s be sure to go see B and Buck sometime when we can.
Rest in peace, sweet lady.
You both were enriched by knowing each other. I’m very sorry.
What a beautiful tribute to your dear Mama Ginna–and what a great–and surprising friendship you sustained over the years–a real blessing to both of you, I believe. I know she was OLD– that doesn’t matter, as age is a state of mind– but when you add health and mind issues, you have a problem. From what you say of her, I feel she would be glad to be shed of the daily world of indignities borne by a dignified lady. I always enjoyed talking to her–and she was DEVOTED to you!! Always hard to lose someone–as Ernie Savage wrote me–whom you love, and who also loves YOU. You have my sympathy–and if you write to Buck, send him some, too. Imagine– he was 79??? How old was she? I’m glad he was a caring son to her. Did she have other children?? Much love to you–child -with- a -sixth- sense. Mama Ginna was probably talking to you as you did the puzzle! Wuv, Mama Small
The Beckley Register Herald had the briefest of obituaries in its December 13 paper. Mama Ginna had just turned ninety-eight in October!
Molly found this picture of us during our last minutes together. She had the most delicate, graceful fingers. Anna and Bates got to meet her that day, too.
Lovely tribute. You know, it’s more than OK to demise when you’re 98 and had a full life. Sorry I never got to meet “your” Mama Ginna.
I’ll echo the comment of “Cuz”– at 98–or even a lot less– one has had a long, full life–and isn’t sorry to leave it. Maybe–given health/mind issues–even GLAD to leave it!! Quit while you’re ahead!. Wuv, Mamoo
Ginna – thank you so much for the loving tribute for my grandmother. I just had this forwarded to me and was touched beyond words, for she was my real Momma Ginna. Uncle Buck’s sister, Wilma Crockett Robinson is my mother. It pleases me to know she had such a caring friend, yet am not surprised, as that was the kind of person she was. Thank you for the memorial and your kind words. May you draw comfort in knowing that she is she smiling down at us, peacefully working her puzzles.
Dear Renee,
I am thrilled to hear from you as well as your sister! I can only imagine what a loving grandmother she must have been. I remember when I first met her, she showed me all the pictures of you kids — children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren — and told me all your names and where you lived. She adored you. You’re very lucky. And I was lucky to have known her for the few years I did. I love the idea of her working her puzzles and smiling at us. That’s comforting. I’m working a puzzle now and have been remembering her. I sure do hope I get to meet you all one day.