Memories of my Paternal Grandparents

Twins
If you read my recent blog post about my maternal grandparents, you’ll find this one to be quite different. But hopefully still interesting.

My Williford grandparents were people I enjoyed visiting and being with when I was young. I wish I could say the same about my Bruner grandparents.

I barely knew my grandfather, Weston Bruner, and I never heard him preach during his lengthy pastoral ministry.  I’m not sure how old I was when he died, but I’ll never forget the time he came to visit us, very much in his dotage. Even now I can almost picture him sitting at the breakfast room table and my shock at watching him pour orange juice on his cereal. My mother shushed me before I could express my dismay.

What an unfortunate recollection.  My only memory of him.

I got to know my paternal grandmother, Mariah Gwathmey Bruner, much better than I did my grandfather. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I was around her enough to have some specific memories. But I never saw her when I didn’t think of her as looking very old.

Grandmother Bruner–I feel certain I never called her anything but “Grandmother”–had a twin sister I vaguely recall. (My grandmother outlived her twin by a number of years.)  The two of them had been children when their mother took them to the founding meeting of the Women’s Missionary Union.

When the WMU, as it’s more commonly known, celebrated its hundredth anniversary, it commissioned a special painting, which was also issued as the postcard pictured above. It depicts attendees at the founding meeting. Yes, those twin girls at the bottom left are my grandmother and her twin, Abby.

Visiting the Bruner home on Hanover Avenue in Richmond  was seldom a fun or pleasant time. It felt like a museum in which practically everything was untouchable. Everything there looked twice as old as my grandmother.

Even Lizzie, the black cook. Of course, in those days, she was respectfully described as “colored.” She was a good cook, though, and I vaguely recall being fond of her. I don’t think I’m dreaming that she took me downtown on the bus several times, as later did one of my grandmother’s nurses.

Grandmother Bruner lived in a huge house on Hanover Avenue in Richmond in an area known as The Fan. I can almost picture the downstairs now–the entrance on the right side of the house with stairs to the second floor. An electric stair lift had been installed to allow her to go upstairs once she was no longer able to climb the stairs. A long hallway (I have no recollection of what it led to) continued past the stairs.

To the left of the entrance way was the living room , which opened into a seldom-used parlor (complete with baby grand piano). Behind the parlor was the huge dining room. At the very back of the house was the kitchen. And perhaps a pantry.

Houses in The Fan might have appeared narrow from the outside, but they tended to go back pretty far. At least that’s what I thought as a small child.

I have a less vivid memory of the upstairs, but there must have been at least four or five bedrooms. The front bedroom opened into a screened-in porch, which I vaguely remember as a pleasant place to sit during hot summer evenings.

As I’ve already mentioned, everything in that house–people affectionately referred to it as “2620,” its street number–seemed old. Yet at one time my grandmother bought a new entertainment center which contained a TV (black and white, of course) and a record player (it pre-dated the advent of stereos).

Even though I thought of her as stodgy and formal, she didn’t get upset at my bringing records to play whenever we came to visit. I played them VERY quietly, however. And can you imagine my amazement when she left that appliance to me when she died?

Grandmother Bruner was an extremely formal person. Visiting her was not a time for me to be loud or boisterous. In fact, my visits were seldom pleasant. They were simply events to be tolerated.

And no wonder. My father’s siblings were all older. Their children were already adults. So visits from other family members simply meant there were more adults around. Never anyone my age.

My word! This post is getting long, and I have more to say. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll continue my recollections on Wednesday.

Do you have–or have you had–relatives you simply failed to get close to? How about sharing with a comment?

~*~

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Best regards,
Roger

If You Lived Here…

yucca     pyracantha     Mockingbird      PearlyGates

If you drive around Richmond for a while, you’ll probably see one or more signs that say, “If you lived here, you’d be home.” While that might attract some people, I’d be more interested in where I started and how I reached wherever I’d gotten to. No matter how nice stopping might be, I could end up quite a distance from other places I’d like to be.

I love home, and I love being home. At this stage of our lives, my wife and I are thankful to have a nice mobile home that’s paid for rather than a fancy “real” house that has a seemingly never-ending mortgage.

Practically everyone in our community waves when we’re out walking, and most of the neighborhood kids have learned that our dog’s name is Happy—and that she is a wigglesome bunch of happiness who’d probably lick an intruder to death.

Not that we need to worry about intruders. People here keep watch on everything that’s going on. On those rare occasions when a stranger ignores the “No trespassing, no soliciting” sign, a resident will call the sheriff’s office and let them send somebody out to determine who the trespasser is and what he or she is up to.

If I answer the door to someone I don’t know and he or she clearly doesn’t belong here, I get out my cell phone for a close-up picture. “So the police will know who to arrest,” I tell the stranger.

Living in this kind of neighborhood is a pleasure. Even though we have to pay land rent, Kathleen and I still have enough of a sense of ownership to plant trees and bushes—the Pyracantha is almost as tall as the house—and fence in the yard before we bought our dog.

Kathleen works just four or five miles up the road and our grocery store, bank, and favorite restaurants—almost everything we need on a regular basis—lie within a two-mile radius.

Our church is the only exception, and it’s just a pleasant ten-minute drive in the country.

Doctor and dentist are many files further away, but we don’t need them often enough to object to the drive.

Yes, there’s no place like home.

Hmm. But what about that Gospel song that says, “This world is not my home”?

The older I get, the more comfort I take in those words.

I look at the moral and economic decay of this nation, and I don’t feel at home here anymore. Not like before, anyhow.

While people who believe in the value of human life and in the importance of working hard for what they want may still be in the majority, we’ve remained silent too long and allowed the career politicians to take control—and to go a long way towards destroying what used to be the finest nation on earth.

I thank God I have Heaven to look forward to. With every day older I get, the closer I am to my true Home.

If you have comments or observations—if you disagree with anything I’ve said—please feel free to share.

I’ll see you again on Wednesday.

Best regards,
Roger