IN MEMORIUM: Rachel Brunette Evans Reinitz

Rachel Brunette Evans grew up in rural Tennessee, the product of an Irish and Indigenous heritage. Life wasn't kind to Rachel much of the time, and to hear it told she was quite the spitfire hillbilly from the fringes of Knoxville and Clarksville, always at the ready to rock and roll. She was the perfect specimen of Appalachian culture. The stories of my grandmother travel far and wide, but I didn’t get to see her in much of that time of her life. Even so, she was always a rebel. That’s what I loved about her most of all.

All of my memories of Mammaw, as we affectionately call her, are diverse but similar. She was as steady as a rock and as predictable as the sunrise. As a young girl I knew she was different, unusual like a rare bird in the fields. The immediate draw to her for me was her ferocity. The way she loved, the way she lived. The way in which she approached life, living in complete authenticity made her exotic and intimidating. She couldn’t have been more than five foot two and still she could strike fear into the hearts of men if they tried her. I saw that and I wanted it for myself. Quite simply, Mammaw didn’t give a single fuck.

Each time I’d visit her home it was immaculate. Not just immaculate, but each item had a place and a purpose. I found it amusing that she kept such a tidy house, yet smoked inside most of the time. Winston branded cigarette cartons lined the top of the fridge long after most people thought Winston had become obsolete. Still, she’d never miss an opportunity to wipe the kitchen sink dry after someone used it.

In probing my memory the past few days I’ve realized that my favorite things about her were her eccentricities. While some folks might shy away from that which they deem unusual or unworthy about themselves, she seemed to embrace all the pieces of her through a form of radical acceptance. By no means was she a saint, nor was she malicious or a fool. Mammaw knew herself well and carried with her the goodness and the shadows. Wrapped up as one big ball of joy and crazy, Mammaw was a woman who lived as she was with her heart on her sleeve and you could take it or leave it, but what you saw was what you got.

The best part about visiting Mammaw and Pappaw one week every year in Kentucky was big breakfast. Big breakfast is what I call Mammaw and Pappaw’s Saturday morning ritual of waking at 4:30am, having coffee, and then making a breakfast fit for royalty. Although Pappaw did most of the cooking, Mammaw took so much joy in eating that I found her role in the endeavor just as important. She’d yell for me every morning at 6:30am, “SUNNY! Breakfast is getting cold. You better wake up. Sassy’s waiting for you!” Sassy was their beloved Pomeranian that my Mammaw bought for Pappaw after their other Pomeranian, Peaches, passed onward. I know this is a story within a memory, but it’s such a perfect representation of who my Mammaw was that I can’t not tell it. A woman of love, compassion, directness, and grit, this story sums her up perfectly.

Peaches was the light of my grandfather’s life. Their owning her all happened by accident: Peaches used to be my dog, or rather my parent’s dog. However, I had just become a toddler and while I loved Peaches, I wouldn’t stop pulling her hair. Side bar: can you blame me? Pomeranians are SO FLUFFY! Anyway, when my mom realized that she couldn’t keep me away from the terrorized pup, she offered her to my grandparents. From then on, it was love at first sight - especially for my grandfather. When Peaches died after fourteen long years, he became depressed. Mammaw said that nothing seemed to help, so even after she’d sworn they’d never get another dog she decided to reconsider. Here’s how she always told the story of adopting Sassy:

Well, he was depressed, moping around you know. So, I said ‘Freddie, get in the car.’ We drove out to this breeders place and as soon as we got in there he lit up. He picked them all up and petted them and he finally had one white one and one black one. They were small enough they fit in the palm of your hand so he had the white one in one hand and the black one in another. He kept saying, ‘I dunno Rachel, what do you think?’ Well of course he already knew, he would ask me and then push the white one closer to me like I was going to choose. I had already told him I didn't care. Finally, the last time he asked I threw my hands up and said, ‘Just get the bitch and let’s go!’ And that’s how we ended up with Sassy. I’d always ask why they named her Sassy. “Because she’s a little bitch who pisses on my floor,” Mammaw would say as she laughed. The same woman would then end her story with, “Now come here and give Mammaw a hug! I love you, baby!” Instead of ‘baby’, she’d sometimes opt for ‘shoogie’. Although, my cousin Chris was more often referenced as ‘shoog’ or ‘shoogie’, she said it to me several times. Now, I often call my own kids ‘shoogie.’ I wish I could’ve given her one last big hug.

Back to big breakfast: after I’d stumble out of bed at 6:30am with it still being dark outside, I’d find Mammaw sitting at the bar with a “cig” as she liked to call them, a cup of coffee, and a newspaper. Pappaw would be standing over the stove cooking gravy and eggs while simultaneously checking the biscuits and bacon in the oven.

“Dij’yew sleep good, baby?” she’d ask. “Yes, Mammaw,” I’d always say. “You want something to drink? You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so make sure you get you plenty.” Breakfast was definitely the most important meal of the day in the Reinitz household, anyway. I loved big breakfast days because I felt like I had a real family, like the ones you’d see on TV. I never really realized it until I got older but I rarely had family meals - with the exception of eating at Gundi’s restaurant on Sundays with my mother’s family. But I never had family meals at home with my parents. My dad worked a lot and he worked nights, so I saw him infrequently. I remember my mother and I sitting quietly eating cereal together in the mornings until I was ten or eleven, but it never felt like a true family meal. At Mammaw and Pappaws, I got the whole shebang - conversation, biscuits, and even coffee. My grandparents showed you love by cooking for you, and I always appreciated it. She’d even make you a nice fiber heavy dinner for the times when things weren’t moving so regularly, if you get my drift. Food for her was love. To experience a meal was to experience the gift of life and the gift of love. There was never a time, especially during meal times where she didn't feel like home.

Aside from all the mealtimes, Mammaw took me with her to work. She cleaned homes for a living since she had such a talent for cultivating spaces of perfection. The woman worked harder than most men I know, and she never took a moment’s break. She also didn't require me to do a thing. I just came along because she was the babysitter. During these cleanings I met wonderful people, and other granddaughters of clientele. We would ride through the wealthy streets of Campbellsville in golf carts on streets named for the people for whom my Mammaw cleaned. I remember her talking about her clients. The conversations would go something like this:

“Now, Mistress Cox is a very sweet and humble woman. I love her, really. She and her husband made a lot of money, but she doesn’t act snobby or anything. Be careful in the house. Everything is kept nice and the wall trim is even real fourteen-carat gold! The house is several bedrooms, but it won’t take me long to clean. Say hi to Mistress Cox, too. I know she’ll love you!” In my heart I could feel the genuine respect and admiration she had for this woman and her family, but also the ripple of envy to one day become like Mrs. Cox. One thing Mammaw seemed to always covet was class. Mammaw quite admired any woman who was classy, and I assume it’s because she reckoned she was anything but. And she was right; she wasn’t classy, but that was one of my absolute favorite things about her.

You see, to be classy you must be poised. Class is about etiquette and refinement. Most of the women in my life were tainted with class, muted by the expectations of outdated puritanical belief structures. They died another day drowning in all of the emotions they were never allowed to feel. Part of me thought I’d be condemned to a partial life of playing this masochistic game of conservative pretend until I got to know my Mammaw. She blew everyone away with her genuine kindness and back woods take-no-shit attitude. She was courageous enough to love and to express that love whenever the emotion arose. Conversely, she wasn’t beyond expressing her displeasure when something irritated her, either, and on top of that it was very unlikely to be communicated in a way that was considered politically correct. While I’m sure many made her feel unwelcome for accepting all the parts of herself, she made one little girl who felt like she’d never fit in feel right at home. She also helped me recognize that perfection was not the goal; loving yourself in all of your light and dark was life’s goal. I was freed in just experiencing her experiencing the scope of her own depth. The impact she has left on me has undoubtedly been immeasurable.

Mammaw taught me to enjoy good food, good family, and regular bowel movements. She was a pro at living in the present moment, in her body, and cultivating gratitude for the little things. As it turns out, the little things end up becoming the big things, like biscuits and gravy at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning. Or like hearing, ‘I love you my baby,’ in her southern drawl as a young child before bed each night. She taught me to defend myself and my loved ones ferociously, and to love and accept myself as Jesus, Buddha, or any other spiritual icon would preach. Though she wasn't perfect, she didn't have to be. I loved her and she loved me, forevermore, and that’s all either of us really need. That is the ultimate goal of life. Measured in those terms, she lived better than most.

I will miss you, my sweet Mammaw. I have known no one else quite like you and I am honored and truly blessed to have known you and been your granddaughter. The thing I will miss most is your laughter and your love. Until we meet again, I love you.

Love, Sunshine