David Adams
I spent more time with Granny Pearl than any of my other grandparents. I was down at her house almost every day, stopping there when I got off the bus on weekdays and riding my bike there on weekends. I would vacuum and dust for her, and she would take me to Wal-Mart and let me buy a toy or book I wanted. I had more conversations with her than I can remember. I heard stories from her childhood or about pranks she pulled on Papa Joe over and over again. I knew some parts of her life well, while others I know nothing about. She never told me she lost two siblings to the Spanish Flu, even though years ago I wrote a book on the topic. And the last time I talked to her, she told me about how she went to Houston as a young woman, a story I was hearing for the first time. Professional historians like myself relish in collecting stories, mourn those stories that are forever lost, and understand that the storyteller only shares what they want to share. And because of the latter, there are so many things I don’t know about my grandmother. If the story I could weave of her life was a quilt, the first fifty-four years would have full areas mixed with threadbare patches and large, gaping holes. But the last forty-three years would be beautiful, thick, and richly ornamented, because those are the years our stories were woven together.
