July 1, 1996 was the 115th anniversary of Grandma Baxter’s birth. We thought it appropriate to honor her memory with something relating to the life of the Grand Old Matriarch of our family. It is doubtful that anyone less than 31 years of age as of this year (age 5 when she died), can recall very much about Grandma. Those of us who do remember her, remember her as a very religious, loving and sharing person even though, at times she appeared to be a cantankerous and quarrelsome old lady – particularly to the young children – many of whom actually feared her. If she was any of the foregoing, perhaps she had good cause. When one delves into Grandma’s early life, as your editors are presently doing, he or she may agree that she had ample reason. All who knew her, realize that there is much to be read between the lines about the trials and tribulations that she undoubtedly experienced in her Pre-Florida life. The following was written by and read to the family by Andy Watts as part of the program for the June 1985 Red James Family Reunion in Fernandina Beach. When Andy was home for the reunion last month, Harry asked him to review his writing to see if he wished to make any changes. Except for changing one awkward sentence, he said, “let it ride”.
- It is noted that both Dottie James and Jaime Meade share the same birthdate as Grandma.
GRANDMA
Andy Watts
Boy Scouts and Florida seem to be mutually exclusive terms. When one thinks of Boy Scouts, images may come to mind of camping in mountains fat with wild animals, pitching tents to bubbling brooks, hiking through dense forest, and wildness survival.
Well, Boy Scouts in Florida was a completely different game when I belonged. The closest things to mountains were sand dunes, and they were pitiful substitutes. There were no bubbling brooks, at least not where I lived. Instead, we pitched our tents next to swollen brown rivers that smelled like boiled sweet socks. There was survival, but it was survival in a jungle, i.e., What’s the best mosquito repellant? or, How do you keep your tent from floating away in the regular – as – clockwork rains? The one thing we did have was hiking. Boy, did we have hiking. Miles and miles with a pack on your back, the sun boiling your brains and the hot cement beneath your aching feet. Because of Florida’s endless expanse of flat land, it seemed that the only thing we did was hike.
How, some of you may be wondering what any of this has to do with our reunion. Well, as it happens, there was one particular Boy Scout excursion that I will never forget because of it’s unusual connection a with certain member of our family no longer with us.
Our troop had left on Friday and travelled to Long Point, an island several miles south of Melbourne, where we intended to camp the whole weekend. Unlike the description I shared with you of previous campouts, this trip began as a complete success. We swam, canoed, hiked (of course), and played a harmless war game that we Scouts affectionately called “Commandos”. I was having the time of my life and certainly the best time in my Scouting career.
In the middle of one exhausting game of war, I suddenly thought I heard my father’s voice.
That’s strange, I thought. I was sure that I had left all family and civilization behind. But, I turned around and there he was. I remember thinking how odd it was to see my father in that setting. He, dressed for Saturday afternoon in the yard, and I still drugged from the bloodthirstiness of battle.
He came up to me and said, “Andy, Grandma Baxter has died. Get your stuff, we’re going to Jacksonville for the funeral”.
I went back to my tent and, as I gathered my gear, kept cursing my luck. “Why did she have to die now?” I raged. “Why couldn’t she have waited until Monday?”
It seemed somehow ironic that the first campout that I had ever actually enjoyed should be interrupted by the one person in our family whom I always thought hated me.
I was young, barely a teenage, and at the time I saw Grandma as this cranky, old woman whom, I was learned, it was the best to steer clear. Another thing I remember was that, to me, there always seemed to cling to Grandma Baxter the smell of an old house. I could never actually determine what the smell was, but whenever it came time for hugs, I would hold my breath.
I have pondered many times since that incident my callousness and selfishness, and have felt guilty but I said, I was young. I didn’t really know much about Grandma Baxter, or give much thought to her, except perhaps when she came to visit or when we did the same. I do remember those road trips to Jacksonville, driving up the dirt road out back, over the rickety bridge that spanned the little creek, and then pulling up behind what I always thought was more of a shack than a house. I think on one of those visits, I made the connection between that old house and the smell that I always associated with Grandma Baxter.
As I look back now, however, many years after she passed away, I think that my connection ran even deeper. I think that in a way Grandma Baxter was like an old house: an old house filled with memories of younger days and secrets that no one will ever know; an old house that has seen the sweet thrill of romance; the heartache of loss; the pleasure of friendship; the miracle of birth and sadness of death – an old strength, and family. And if Grandma Baxter was cranky, well, like an old house that has been around for a long time and seen a great many things, perhaps she had it right.
A month or so ago when Mom and I were discussing possible entertainment for this reunion, she knew of my interest in Grandma Baxter’s life. This interest came about not only because of the apparent lack of information on Grandma’s life, but also because of the highly dramatic quality of the things I do know. She suggested I write and read to you my own fictionalized account of her life based on any facts I have gathered to date. When I sat down to write, however, what came out was this tribute, if you can call it that. The memory of that camping trip came flooding back, which in turn stimulated other memories and since inspiration of that sort comes infrequently though, I thought it best to go with the impulse.
I still plan one day to write her story with the help of available knowledge and my own imagination. Perhaps at some future reunion I will be passing out copies of it in the form of screenplay or novel. (In early 1986 Andy wrote communion, a fictional screenplay about Grandma Baxter‘s life, that he submitted to the Florida Film Commissions Screenwriters Competition. I did not win, but Andy tells us he learned a lot about what NOT to do when writing a screenplay.)
Grandma Baxter, if you’re listening somewhere out there, and if you heard the adolescent whisperings of a selfish adolescent in a pup tent over a decade ago… I’m sorry. I wish that I had known you better; to have understood the hardships you must have faced while being a strong-willed, independent and opinionated woman living in an age that wasn’t quite ready for you. Although if you were here now, you’d probably tell me that it was none of my business and that, as they say would be that.
Andy, it has saddened me greatly that you never had the opportunity to know Grandma Baxter as I did.
I found that going into her HOME was the most exciting time for me..it had the smell of my Grandma who kept herself and her HOME the cleanest and homiest place to be. We had many hours of enjoyment together, throughout my life, especially after marrying my sweetheart, Kendall. If fact, while she was in California visiting Aunt Gertie, we were married and she offered her HOME to the newly weds. What fun we had, taking showers on the back porch, etc. I wouldlove to write more of our times but space does not allow. My love and hope to see you again Grandma!! Roses