What do you say when the end comes for one of the world’s truly great people?
That’s the only thing I can think as I stare at a blank screen after sending out the obituary I’ve written for my grandmother, the late Louise Stubblefield Moultrie.
Obituary
Louise “Cricket” Stubblefield Moultrie, 89, of Albertville, Alabama, died Tuesday morning, May 29, 2018, at Shepherd’s Cove Hospice in Albertville.
She was born June 15, 1928, in Guntersville, Alabama, to E.W. and Delia Stubblefield. She was preceded in death by her parents and by her husband, Billy F. Moultrie.
Mrs. Moultrie was retired from the Albertville City Schools and was a member of First Baptist Church of Albertville.
Survivors include her sons and daughters-in-law, Frank and Melissa Moultrie and Dr. Russell and Kathy Moultrie, all of Birmingham, Alabama, and Steve and Julie Moultrie, of Guntersville; daughter and son-in-law, Susan and Don Clemons, of Albertville; 11 grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.
A graveside service began at 2 p.m. CDT Thursday, May 31, at Memory Hill Cemetery in Albertville with the Rev. Chris Herbert officiating. Adams Brown Funeral Home in Albertville was in charge of the arrangements.
The family suggests donations to Shepherd’s Cove
Hospice, 408 Martling Road, Albertville, AL 35951.
The world, though, knew her as Cricket, the nickname given her by her father. As the firstborn grandchild, I could have given her a new name, like Granny or Mimi or Nana or any number of things grandchildren give that special caring woman in their lives, but apparently I heard what everyone else called her and went with that.
She was Cricket to me, my sister and my nine cousins too. It didn’t strike me as odd until well into adulthood that my grandmother didn’t have a traditional grandmother name. If it bothered her, she never said anything about it.
Instead, she put her energies into being one of the most amazing grandmothers who ever lived. It manifested itself through food, and worry.
She made the greatest biscuits ever. Even as a little kid, I’d eat too many of them and begrudge my grandfather if I felt he got too many of mine. (This is probably a good time to mention I was an only grandchild for five years.)
You know those cathead biscuits, so called because they’re as big as a cat’s head? These were the exact opposite. They are maybe as big around as a silver dollar and there was never a recipe. My mother, her only daughter, will be the first to tell you the secret to making them never got passed down and so they’ll never be re-created.
I’ve only had biscuits like them one other time in my life, at the Cotton Patch restaurant in Eutaw, Alabama. It was across from the dog track and probably not a place you were supposed to go, but my God, the biscuits – hot and with blackberry jam and they tasted just like hers and I’d eat them right now.
Unfortunately the Cotton Patch closed years ago and so did my grandmother’s kitchen. I haven’t had biscuits like that since, although if you think you’ve got what it takes, bring some by the paper and we’ll see for ourselves.
But the worry? My goodness, the worry. Cricket lived in fear her grandchildren would be swept up in a tornado, or hit their head on the fireplace hearth – a constant worry – or maybe worst of all, be cold. When I went to college, she made sure I had enough blue sweatshirts from Hammer’s to outfit everyone in the dorm.
I never had the heart to tell her I lived on the first floor and they’d crank the heat up so the third-floor guys would get enough to keep off the frostbite. So we’d swelter even in January, but it was fine. I kept the sweatshirts folded up next to the brownies and muffins she’d send – goodies that merited her a proposal from my friend Josh despite their 52-year age difference, and the fact my grandfather was, you know, still alive.
There are six great-grandchildren now with more to follow, I’m sure. I know every time one of their parents gasps at the thought of one doing anything the least bit dangerous, or even potentially dangerous, Cricket would approve. She raised us this way, just as she raised us to love the Lord and a good salmon patty.
Even at a month shy of 90, she’s gone much too soon.
David Clemons is the editor and publisher of The Covington News. His email address is dclemons@covnews.com. Twitter: @scoopclemons.
