My great-grandmother's name was Sallie Mae.
In the early part of the 20th century, she and Wyatt, my great-grandfather, traveled from coast to coast in the South, setting up back room gambling operations and staying in small towns for a week, or a month, until the bribes to the local law wore out. They traveled with Wyatt's brother John who was a big man, and was the muscle of the business. My dad and I are named after him. They also traveled with their two young daughters, Millie and Mayme, my grandmother.
Sallie Mae was the only one who knew how to drive, and she drove the Model T and later the Model A, tens of thousands of miles on dirt tracks and cow paths, long before there were any paved highways available in that part of the country. When they drove out west through the desert, it was at night since the T would boil over during the day.
By the time I came along, Sallie Mae was old and we called her Big Mama. I didn't know she had another name until I was an adult. She was a good cook, having learned how in the Arkansas roadhouse she was born in, before Wyatt found her and took her off. Her drawl was almost unintelligible at times, but I thought that was just the way old folks talked. She outlived two more husbands after Wyatt and when she finally passed on herself at around 95, Mayme and Millie only lived another few months themselves.
These women were my family. They were racist. They were white trash. They spent a good part of their lives engaged in illegal activities. They were good cooks. They loved me, and I loved them back. And they helped teach me what was right and wrong, and what was important and what wasn't. I miss them.
If Sallie Mae were still around, Paula Deen's tribulations and the resulting kerfuffle here would make her laugh and laugh while she picked fleas off the dog in the living room.
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