Jessica Ferguson

Author, Writing Coach, Speaker

H is for Hair

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Long hair was important to my grandmother.  She never cut hers. She wore it in a knot at her neck or sometimes a braid wound tight. It was gray for as long as I can remember. Here’s a picture of my little granny with her mom, dad and some of her brothers. Lots of hair!  

Today, ‘they’ say a woman older than 40 shouldn’t wear long hair. You can read about it HERE. My mother used to have long red hair—until I came into her life. Remember, I told you she was a private duty nurse; she worked nights and slept days. I had to entertain myself and one day I did that by cutting her long red hair as it flowed off the side of the bed. I can’t remember if she spanked me or not. Since I’ve blocked that memory, she probably did. She was a spare the rod spoil the child mama.

When I look at this picture of my grandmother when she was young (middle child standing), I can’t help but wonder how she was raised. I know that she was sent to school “in town” along with one musically talented brother. Neither one of them liked the town school and eventually didn’t attend it any more. I wonder how long they did go.

As an older pre-schooler, I stayed with my grandmother while my mother worked or slept because she worked the night shift. Mom said she didn’t like it when I started talking like my grandmother—calling my underwear drawers and the front porch the gallery.

I remember several things about my grandma:

She was a great cook. I loved her egg custard pies. Oh, how I wish I had her recipe.

I remember crawling under a tractor to get some eggs for her.  I bumped my head and she thought that was so funny. I didn’t.

She would wring the necks of chickens, throw them to the ground and watch them flop. Her arms were always scratched up from their sharp claws. Her fried chicken sure tasted good!


When she became ill, my mother was her nurse. Mom would bathe her feet and ‘Mamaw” would never want anyone to see her naked feet—it was sinful, she said.

She was a wonderful quilter. She had a frame that hung from the ceiling upstairs and several of the neighbors would come and do whatever they do on quilting frames. See how much I know about quilting? When she was 90, she entered a quilt in the local fair. (I realize she looks bald in this pic, but her hair is in that tight little knot at her neck.)

Look at these four generations of women: Do we favor? In what way? Do you favor your grandparents or have any neat stories about your grandmas?

G is for Genealogy

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Genealogy:   A record or table of the descent of a person, family, or group from an ancestor or ancestors; a family tree
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I’m hooked on genealogy and have been for a number of years. I put it away for a long time but last year, after watching Who Do You Think You Are? on Friday nights, I dug out my disorganized notes and records, joined ancestry.com and started searching.

Genealogy is addictive. I struggle between writing fiction and wanting to devote all my time to writing my family history–at least, a few personal family stories like  the one below.
Me and Grandma
I was closer to Grandma than her other grandkids. Maybe because we lived right across the pasture and I saw her every day. When I was little, I stayed with Grandma while Mama worked. I watched her wring the necks of chickens, slam them to the ground and laugh while they flopped to death. There was something a little scary, yet fascinating about watching my old Grandma, long grey hair knotted at the base of her neck, killing chickens.
When I got older, I’d still hang out with Grandma. I thought she could teach me something school books, and my own mom, couldn’t.
Being at Grandma’s house always felt right.

But this story isn’t 100% true. I wasn’t any closer to Grandma than the other grandkids; I did live across the pasture. And I did stay with her when I was little while my mom worked but once I started calling my panties ‘drawers’ and the front porch a ‘gallery’, Mom put me in a kindergarten. I did watch Grandma (I really called her Mamaw) wring the necks of chickens, and she did twist her long hair in a knot. She laughed too. Yes, she fascinated me, so is the story a lie?

I wonder what keeps people from ‘elaborating’ their family history, stories about their ancestors? 

John Henry Roach is 18 years old. Mattie Mae Smith is 16 years old. Too handsome and beautiful to be wringing the necks of chickens.