Born: January 2, 1894
Died: December 28, 1951

Remembering Grandmother Holt
by
Nancy Holt Adams

I have many happy memories of Grandmother Holt, most of them centering around her wonderful kitchen. How I loved to spend time with her in that huge corner kitchen on Rose Avenue with all those windows! It may have passed through many color changes, but the one that comes to my mind is yellow. It was absolutely the brightest, cheeriest kitchen I have ever had the privilege to be in.

In fact, I was intrigued by the entire house she and Granddaddy lived in. I expect it was the first duplex I ever encountered. What made it so intriguing to me was that two families lived in the same house, but had separate kitchens and bathrooms and bedrooms. I think they shared the living room, but I can’t remember for sure. If memory serves me correctly, Edna, one of Grandmother and Granddaddy’s daughters was living there with them. If she was married at the time, I don’t remember her husband, but I do remember her son Tommy. All us girl cousins thought he was the handsomest boy cousin we had. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Outside of spending time with Grandmother and Granddaddy Holt, I don’t remember any specifics except I always loved to visit them. There was one time, however, I still fondly remember. Mama and Daddy (Oma and Ralph Holt) were going on a trip to York, Pennsylvania. I believe it was a combination business and pleasure trip. They were taking my younger brother Charles with them, but my sister and I were given a choice of either going on the trip or staying with Grandmother and Granddaddy. I also had two older brothers, Fred and Joe, but I don’t remember what arrangements were made for them.

The trip to Pennsylvania sounded exciting, but staying with Grandmother and Granddaddy for several days was even more appealing, so Susan and I opted for that. While we were there, Grandmother brought in a bushel or more of peaches to preserve, so Granddaddy got the distinct honor of peeling all those luscious tree-ripened jewels. Now I do love peaches more than anything. So does sister Susan.

I can still see us huddling in a corner of that huge kitchen, Granddaddy between us peeling that mountain of peaches. Of course, Susan and I were attempting to help him, but all we were really doing was eating what we peeled. Now Grandaddy wasn’t what you would call stern, but he wasn’t exactly a comedian either. However, he turned on all the charm that day in order to induce us to help him peel those peaches. “Bet I can peel ‘em faster than you can eat ‘em,” he challenged. We were pretty quick to pick up that gauntlet! Susan and I commenced to eating those peaches and peeling a few of our own. Pretty soon the pile of fuzzy fruit was dwindling faster than the bowls of peeled fruit were filling up. Who could resist such a tempting delicacy?

When Grandmother turned around and saw what was happening, she told us to stop eating and commence to peeling or there would be no peach cobbler for Thanksgiving that year. That was enough for us. We rolled up our sleeves and set to peeling peaches rather than eating them.

That night both Susan and I had the worst stomach aches you could ever imagine. Grandmother knew what was wrong, of course, but she never scolded us or told us how stupid we had been to eat all those peaches. We kept her up all night going back and forth to the bathroom, poor soul, but she never complained.

However, Granddaddy didn’t fare so well. Just before daylight she was tucking us back in for the hundredth time, kissed our foreheads as usual, then went back to bed in the next room. Granddaddy evidently woke up and asked her why she had gotten up. Although she was trying to whisper, I think the all-night nurse duty had worn her down. “The girls are sick,” she said. “And it’s your fault. Feeding them all those peaches!”

“But they wanted them,” Grandaddy replied.

“Lands alive, Comer! They’re just kids. You’re supposed to know better!”

There was a little rustling of the covers and then I heard Grandmother say, “Where you going? It’s too early to get up.”

“Reckon I ate a few too many peaches, myself,” Granddaddy said. Just as the bathroom door closed behind him, I heard Grandmother giggle, and I can still hear her giggling today.

I was almost nine years old when she died and her death both confused and frightened me. For one thing, it was my first encounter with death, so it was an alien experience and I didn’t know how to handle my emotions. I understood Grandmother had gone somewhere and was never coming back. What I didn’t understand was why she would leave us all behind. Didn’t she still love us?

I remember seeing her in her coffin in the living room. At first that seemed fine because I was used to seeing her there. But when I stood beside it and saw how still she was, no more giggling and happy smiles, it was very frightening. Why couldn’t she move? Why was she so pale? Everyone kept whispering and moving around and I overheard bits and pieces of hushed conversation.--“She’s sleeping so peacefully.” “I’ve never seen her look more lovely.”--those type of comments. How could she be sleeping when all those people were milling around her?

Also contributing to my rising unease were the drapes. They were all pulled together tight as could be. Not a speck of sunlight was coming in. Grandmother always liked the sunshine. Why were they hiding her in the dark in broad daylight?

Cutting into my growing alarm over the darkness was this great mystery everyone was trying to solve. Every time I heard someone start unraveling the story, I moved closer, but they would whisper and turn their backs as if hearing them would not be good for me. If I solved the mystery, would I die, too? Is that why Grandmother had died? She had solved a great mystery? It was all a very unsettling time believe me. Nothing like those sunny days spent in Grandmother’s kitchen with her baking and humming some roustabout tune.

The “great mystery” surrounding Grandmother’s death I discovered later in life was the premonition she had had about her death, her dream about a peaceful passing from this world to the next. Sounds so innocent now, but to a little girl of eight, all I heard was bleeding hearts and family ghosts.

Many years later when Grandaddy died, I remember my own daddy saying to me, “When Mama died, I lost my best friend, but today I lost my anchor.” What a lovely tribute to a mother to be her son’s best friend. I like thinking of her that way because she was someone very special in my life, too.

Nora's Parents - Thomas and Volisha Wyche
Also in picture are three of Nora's children
Ralph is in center, Helen in front, Edna to his right

Thomas and Volisha Wyche
Parents to Jimmie Lenora Wyche Holt