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| FORSYTH COUNTY NEWS | ForsythNews.com
Memories of Aunt Ozelle, the great magnolia tree
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RONDA RICH
Columnist ,
Frequently these days,
my sister and I are
brought together for a
funeral or funeral home
visitation of yet another
family member, mostly
those from Mama and
.Daddy’s generation
although our cousins have
begun dying off. .
On one of the most
recent visitations, we
stopped for an early din
ner and encountered the
great-granddaughters of
my beloved Aunt Ozelle,
‘Mama’s oldest sister. I
stopped at their table to
chat. :
“It’s so funny that we
should runinto you
today,” said the pretty :
Mary Beth who was with
her pretty sister, Hannah.
“I just went by Nanna’s
house today. I know how
close you were to her.”.
Mama used to say that
of all the cousins, I loved
Aunt Ozelle the best. I
was devoted. And not
because she was warm,
cuddly and soft. She
wasn’t. She was a product
of a hard raising and a
hard beginning of her own
family life in the desper
ately poor mountains. She
once told me it was the
winter of 1937 that had
forced her and Uncle Tom
out of the mountains and
into a town to make a liv
ing. Their baby had died.
Their cow, their reliable
source of milk and butter,
had choked to death when
she got her head stuck
between slabs in the stall.
And their beloved dog
had died, too.
“If we’d stayed, we’d
probably would’ve died,
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too,” she recounted in a
non-seéntimental tone.
That was Aunt Ozelle.
She was stoic, somber,
and smart as they come.
She knew the Bible up
one side and down the
other. She did not suffer
fools well believing as €
King James Bible teaqég
that a *“fool” is the worst
thing you can call some
one. ,
When I was 5 and 6,
the summer between my
first and second grades, I
stayed with Aunt Ozelle
while Mama labored in a
sewing plant. Aunt Ozelle
took no money for this
child care. She was doing
what mountain people
always do — watching
out after one of their own.
There are many things I
remember about those
days: the musty root cel
lar in which I loved to
play; Aunt Ozelle’s devo
tion to “Days of Our
Lives” which we watched
faithfully; the bed with
the handmade quilt on
which I took a nap; how
she mixed grape and
orange soda together for
my refreshment after nap
time; and how her little
house was always neat,
dusted and perfect. They
didn’t have a lot but they
took mighty good care of
what they-had.
Every day at noon on
the dot, she called me for.
lunch to her kitchen, so
tiny that her small table,
covered with a red check
ered oil cloth, was :
pressed against a wall.
She always delivered a
delicious lunch. As we
ate, a rich baritone voice
filled the room, coming
from the little radio she
kept above the stove. -
“Hello America, this is
Paul Harvey.” His melod
ic sounds would fill the
air as we both listened
and ate.
In front of the little
shotgun house that Aunt
Ozelle and Uncle Tom
bought brand new in
1945, was a joyous mag
nolia tree. I played for
many hours under that
majestic tree. I loved it.
In later years, I would
realize that it was truly
the mostly beautifully
shaped and enormous
magnolia I'd ever seen.
Shortly before Aunt
Ozelle died at 91, I was
visiting. We sat on the
screened-in front porch,
rocking and talking.
“Did you plant that
freel’
She nodded. “Justa
seedling when I put it in
almost 70 years ago.”
After her death, the
house sold. I have inten
tionally not been by it
there, fearful of one thing.
“I hate to ask you this
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because I hate to know
this answer but...” I
paused, reaching for
nerve, “Did the new
owner cut that magnolia
down?”
Slowly, Mary Beth nod
ded “yes.”
There is nothing more I
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can say. The sadness is
too great.
Ronda Rich is the best-sell
ing author of “Mark My
Words: A Memoir of
Mama.” Visit www.rondar
ich.com to sign up for her
free weekly newsletter.
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