COLUMN: ‘How’s Ben? How’s Ole Miss?’

I buried my grandmother on Monday. 

She was laid to rest beside my ‘Little’ Papaw. Charlie wasn’t small or anything, he was just married to Mary Nelle. And, yes, she was tiny. The only reason Norma, my last remaining grandparent, is the ‘Big’ Mamaw is because she’s taller. 

Toddlers aren’t scientists, folks. 

I’ll miss my grandmother. She was an amazing seamstress. Her hot spaghetti was a religious experience. She was a germaphobe. So, of course, one of my very favorite pranks to play on her was to sneak up from behind and act as if I was about to stick my fingers in her food. 

She had an afro only rivaled by the Jackson 5. She was perpetually cold. I never saw her sweat. And I don’t mean in the figurative sense. I legitimately — in my 37 years of being on this planet with her — never actually saw her dab a single drop of perspiration from her brow. And I found that fascinating because I sweat in the shower. 

She had absolutely no idea what I did for a living — long before she developed Alzheimer’s late in her life. It was weird, though. Little Mamaw always seemed to eventually remember me whenever I’d see her, I think, for two reasons: Ole Miss, which made absolutely zero sense, seeing as she wasn’t even an Ole Miss fan. Actually, she knew absolutely nothing about sports, let alone the Rebel kind.

(How’s Ole Miss? As if Ole Miss were a person.)

She was born and raised in Saulsbury, Tennessee.

If you’ve never heard of Saulsbury, Tennessee, that’s OK. Most of the rest of the civilized world hasn’t either. Last I checked the population was around 100 people. Downtown is a grocery store that’s been closed since Reagan was president, two churches and an abandoned school I was dared by my one of my brothers to walk through as a kid. Real Derry stuff. IT’s in there.

She’s buried in Saulsbury Cemetery now — just off College Road (which, weirdly, has no college, but multiple speed “humps,” as they’re identified on their signs, and not “bumps.” You know, like normal people.). Next to my grandfather — who understood me better at 13 than most people have my entire life. Behind her mother and father. My great-grandmother was ‘Banga’ for some reason. Banga could jaws-of-life open any jar. Stuff of legend.

The last time I really talked to my Little Mamaw (before the cruelty of Alzheimer’s took her), she asked, ‘How’s Ben?,’ as she always did. ‘How’s Ole Miss?’ We probably talked about my girls. We probably talked about where all I’d traveled that year for my job. To her, even a trip to Starkville was story enough. Impressive enough. 

Little Mamaw was the smallest of small-town girls.

She had real-life problems growing up. Grandaddy Brotherton built their home with his bare hands. They grew their food. Try to explain a sports obsession to that person, let alone an Ole Miss one.

But, let’s be honest, she mostly remembered me because I am the fat one of my brothers. All weekend Daniel and Stephen were confused as the twins. They’re both 6-4, skinny and all that. Then there’s … me. Yeah. 

We used to eat Sunday lunch with all the family. I remember one weekend not at all long ago I had come in from an Ole Miss trip. She met me at the kitchen counter of my ‘Big’ Mamaw’s house. She hugged me around my waist and I patted her afro. 

‘How’s Ben?’

‘How’s Ole Miss?’

‘You’ve always had that belly.’

The gentle pat of my midsection was neither comforting nor soothing.

All these years later, I don’t remember a thing about the game I had come in from the day before. Ole Miss had done something and I was either happy or mad about it. I probably said some stuff online that I shouldn’t have. Probably wrote a column that, if read today, would undoubtedly make me cringe.

I do remember my grandmother calling me fat. And I love that. Unintentionally hilarious was my Little Mamaw. Because my grandmother is gone now and I’m going to miss her. I’ve been going to a lot of funerals lately. Brantley Bryant’s gone, too. He loved Ole Miss. Really into Ole Miss baseball. He had some thoughts about Mike Bianco.

Grief is weird. The wheels keep turning. The gears keep grinding. We all cope differently. Ole Miss will keep doing Ole Miss stuff. This story will roll off the front page of the Ole Miss Spirit by mid-morning. Most of us will be shooting off fireworks this time tomorrow.

I just wanted to talk about my grandmother.