I wrote this a while back, but wanted to share it again in honor of my grandmother.

My grandmother, Winnie Waugh, walked with a wooden cane for as long as I can remember. This cane was made of smooth, polished, dark brown wood and was very plain—a simple curve at the top for her hand and a rubber tip to grip the floor or ground securely. My grandmother was a short woman—4’10”—and she was heavy, around two hundred pounds. I’m sure that the cane was necessary because of the excess weight she carried. She wore a size 4 shoe, so her small feet no doubt made balancing a precarious task. I remember Grandmother’s cane as a menacing weapon that she wielded when she was vexed. She would raise it high and threaten, “You better behave or I’ll smack you with this.”

My grandmother had been a powerful woman in her younger years. She was the statewide president of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR), and in that role she spoke at least once to the Texas House of Representatives. She was known for her charitable work in her small town of Bastrop, Texas, where she gave food and clothing to the less fortunate and even helped transport women prisoners by train to the state prison so they would be safe. She was headstrong, plainspoken, and no-nonsense, and she had a Scottish husband who loved her dearly and let her be who and how she was—even in those early years of the twentieth century. But, unfortunately, I met her in the waning years of her life, long after her personal power had diminished, when she was filled with frustration.

I like to think of Winnie Waugh’s cane as a symbol of her personality—strong, simple, purposeful, and effective. The rubber cover on the tip—that grip—could easily describe her grounded nature. Just like that cane, she was not built for weakness or neediness, but rather for strength and aid. In fact, she didn’t know what to do once her purpose was gone. That’s where the impatience came in.

My grandmother was well into her eighties when I was a child. She had raised four children, lost one son, buried her husband, and been displaced from her home to come live with us. She was not a happy, soft, cuddly woman who wanted to bake cookies and tell stories to her granddaughter. No, this was a woman who routinely came into our kitchen with her suitcases packed and announced, “Someone needs to take me to the train station. Good-bye and good riddance.”

I can almost feel her frustration these fifty years later—her anger over the injustice of aging and the loss of her personal freedom. As I age, I’m closer to understanding just how infuriating she must have found her situation, which surely felt prison-like. Unlike her, I hope to meet old age with more grace—to be a grandmother who engenders love, not fear.

Yet I must admit, I felt her power. She was not to be ignored or pandered to or treated with even a smidgen of disrespect. After all, that’s when her cane proved indispensable. “Stop running in this house,” she’d call, and then point that wooden stick at me. I slowed down immediately and said, “Yes, ma’am,” loud enough for her to hear. Those were the rules with Winnie Waugh.

Raising Cane. I realize that phrase has another origin and another spelling than the cane I’m referring to. But in my childhood home, that phrase could aptly describe my grandmother. Winnie Waugh loved to raise cane (Cain). She was angry, and the implement intended to steady her walk gave her a way to harness what remained of her strength.

Now that I’m sixty, I can look at my grandmother’s behavior with new respect. She was not going to succumb to her circumstances without putting up a fight. To hell with passive surrender—she was ready to use whatever means were at her disposal to chase away loss, fear, and the occasional noisy child. This was a battle to the death, after all. She lived to be ninety-six, so she gave it her very best.

Probably Winnie Waugh’s sheer stubbornness kept her alive. Or maybe it was that cane. She lifted it several times a day, after all, to exercise her authority and reclaim just a bit of control over her life.