March 28, 2026 - remembering Granny

28 years ago my grandmother died. In the years since I've often recounted that day, and hearing for the first time the desperate, primal wailing of a son who just found his mother on the floor as my uncle beat our door in the morning, screaming and inconsolable.

I want to spend this anniversary remembering who she was, or at least who she was to me.

Above all, Ortha Marie Chapman Kotlarz was as faithful a woman of God as she knew how to be. When we moved to Blackbottom in 1995, we all stayed in the house on 49th Street with her and her husband, who (whom? Whomst even knows anymore) we called Poppy and whose given name was Ken, for a couple weeks and my mom found soon that the house she grew up in on 47th Street was available for rent. And the landlord, Roger, was a legitimately kind man, and as such had no business being a landlord. I hope all his dreams came true. We'd have been homeless for most of my childhood if not for that man's kindness, and if you know anything about me, you know I am not a fan of landlords.

Granny was an apothecary. She freely gave from a generous, beautiful, intergenerational mix of Christianity and Appalachian know-how, sometimes taking the form of "God won't put more on you than He knows you can handle" and other times manifesting as Bruton Scotch Snuff and granny-spit for a bee sting. It was gross, and it was weird, but it was love.

Once, my older brother Daniel backtalked Mom in front of Granny. The keyword here is "once." He did not do that shit again (in front of Granny) because she threatened to whip his ass, and we all knew she meant it. She'd have us pick our switches, and then she'd inevitably override our decisions, opting instead for a more efficient, welt-leaving asswhoopin' stick instead. The woman had fourteen children and raised eleven (three died at birth and are buried near her) and was an absolute unit of a veteran of whoopin' ass. I bet in the 70s she kept that pimp hand primed while my uncles and aunts were running through different teenage phases.

She loved card games. I think she loved sewing, but I know she was good at it. She also liked cross-stitching. She'd hum and sing hymns while tarrying away at some form or other of magical string manipulation while watching her shows.

Sick days at Granny's were the best, because while Campbell's chicken noodle soup tastes the same as an adult as when I was a kid, the magic of her bringing it to me with a 7up and hanging out with me while I watch Bob Barker and Judge Judy and such only exists in my memory.

When my brothers and I stayed the night, we'd make pallets on the hardwood floor and I'd cocoon into mine and roll it around me. The box fan sang us to sleep. Sometimes when I slept at home I'd sleep on the floor to feel like I was at Granny's again.

When she and Ken lived in Minnesota, Daniel and I spent the night once. We were maybe five (me) and seven (Daniel) and he told me that we could make fire by rubbing two sticks together. We were both doubtful so we applied the scientific method. The conclusion was yes, yes that does work, after a hell of a lot of time, but also it turns out that if you throw something that's on fire, it does not eliminate the fire, and throwing the fire under the house was a bad move, and we should sacrifice our respective asses and both tell Granny.

We picked switches that day. I remember she said "and DON'T even THINK about rubbin' 'em together!" We told her on time to not catch the house on fire, and I accepted my ass-whippin' without fuss, having immediately accepted that I definitely earned it via accidental arson.

My grandmother was tough as shit. She put up with some of the worst men imaginable. Ken outlived her but never truly got over her. She lost her own mother pretty early. She loved God and did her best. She wore hexagonal glasses that took a lot of real estate on her face. She loved her snuff, and the smell of it has never been replicated. I saw a Bruton Scotch Snuff can at a thrift store a couple years ago and nearly cried.

My granny was a lover of terrible dogs, a source of treats (Luden's cherry cough drops are, to the right poor kid, indistinguishable from candy) at the Greyhound station, a skilled and stalwart whipper of many an ass, a repository of memorized Bible verses and Appalachian magic, and an indefatigable fountain of wit.

She was casually racist in ways I'd watched her live long enough to make, as well as she knew how, attempts to correct. My friend Lovell punched me in the face one day when I used the n-word in reference to him, and later I asked him why and he explained to me why it's okay for him and his Black friends to use it, but when I do, it can hurt literally any Black person. Growing up in Minnesota until recently by that point, most of my racial education was with regard to the Hmong population and native Americans, but in Chattanooga, my brothers and I were some of very few white people in a predominantly Black school. I apologized and explained that I thought it was just a way to say 'friend,' and the desire to say it was immediately gone because I didn't want to risk hurting my friend, especially if I was trying to do the opposite. So I asked Granny why she said a word that has a chance to hurt people and she said "you're right," and mumbled some bullshit about the Mark of Cain, and said she'd pray about it. I don't remember her ever saying the word since. 

She was patient and kind. She always had extra eggs and sugar, and kept the store-brand sodas stocked. She was traditional, but never stuffy, and she worked her ass off and survived countless horrors from which she protected subsequent generations. She was our Matriarch and she will be remembered as loving, imperfect, funny, compassionate royalty as long as my memory keeps her photo on its ofrenda.

I wish I could believe in Heaven. But I believe in peace. And I hope she's at peace.

Rest easy, Granny. I love and miss you.

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