Stories are the lifeblood of humanity’s sense of time and our own sense of belonging; I don’t think we really know where we’re going if we don’t know where we came from. Stories are what fuel the imagination and set our moral compass.
When I first decided to include Back to Roots in Grit, I had a vision: talk to normal people, and have them write their journeys of personal reclamation, of bringing the important lessons of the past into the modern era, whatever that meant to them. Then, someone pointed out to me that I also have a story and that I’m (mostly) a normal person.
Elders and their stories hold a special place in my heart – one that’s hard to fully define. My love of stories led me, pretty much by accident, into my career. I learned to read at a very young age and hung on every word my elders spoke, no matter where I was. Whether the stories were silly or serious, I absorbed whatever lesson was offered that day – often without realizing I’d learned anything at all. I’ve been fortunate to have the guidance of elders in nearly every aspect of my life. I’ve not only met, but also formed relationships with my great-grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, and even people I adopted into the role of elder – like Grit writer Dana Benner – whose stories continue to guide me.
The Great-Granny of my Generation
I remember being about 7 years old and spending a weekend with my great-grandmother in East Texas. Over that weekend, I picked fruits and veggies from her garden and cooked with them, got frustrated over learning how to crochet, learned to make my own shirt (don’t worry, Momo fixed my mess), helped piece a quilt, and listened to stories about growing up during the Great Depression and her life struggles – stories of making do with what you had. I now recognize these lessons were in humility and creativity. I remember sitting beside her in the kitchen, watching her make homemade hot chocolate and a pie. She didn’t say much at first, just smiled while she worked, stirring the milk on the stove. That day, I not only learned how to make a special treat, but I also learned the quiet strength found in resilience – a lesson that’s stayed with me ever since. Arguably, I’m anything but quiet, despite the lesson.
During my visit, my grandfather came by and we sat at my great-grandma’s table (well … they sat at it … I sat on it), eating blackberries in cream while he told me about one of the jobs he’d just finished (my little self thought Papa was fearless, being a roofer and all) and challenged me to a game of poker (which he’d taught me to play a couple years before). I didn’t win much at all in cards, but I did win valuable time with my grandfather, who passed about two years later.
When I got home from her house Sunday evening, I – very proudly – told my grandmother and aunt that “when I grow up, I’m going to be the Momo of my generation.”
These moments may seem small, but they certainly imparted lessons I’ve carried with me decades later, and I’ve shared them with my children and grandchildren. Each of my children has learned to sew (to varying degrees), to understand the importance of growing and raising food, to make things by hand, and to find joy in the small things. Each year, the kids in my life (including the neighborhood children who come come over near-daily) each get to choose a plant to grow, and later, if they’ve successfully made it to harvest, they choose the first dish we make with it. My youngest son (who’s 9 at the time of this writing) always chooses the wild blackberries on our property and wants a blackberry cobbler. My great-grandmother taught me how to make the recipe, and I’m happy to share it below.
Bringing the Past into the Present
My family will randomly have sewing circles (and I use “circle” in the loosest sense possible) in the middle of our living room. Or, we’ll all gather in the kitchen, and we parents teach the kids how to cook something new. Sometimes, we’ll all be outside, enjoying the sun while we play in the dirt or around a campfire.
During these moments – there are no “quiet moments” in our family – we share our stories with them: of days I spent on my great-aunt and great-uncle’s farm in Texas, being chased by “goosters” (it’s a running joke on that side of the family, even still); of seasons my husband spent in south Louisiana hunting gators and only setting his aunt’s ditch on fire once; of that time in Georgia when I wandered off with other kids in the family and “got lost” on the mountain where we lived (I was not lost, I knew exactly where I was; the grown-ups simply didn’t know where we were); of fishing off bridges, catching sharks and alligators, getting stuck in trees or in the middle of a lake; of being attacked by flaming marshmallows and hordes of mosquitoes … the funny, the true, the slightly exaggerated, and the serious. Stories that build us into who we are.
Even more importantly, we pass along the stories that were entrusted to us. There’s the story of my great-uncle, who served in a war and lost his leg on a Navy boat. His recovery was difficult, to say the least, but he adapted with the support of the small Georgia town where they lived. The community’s compassion and resilience helped everyone move forward together.
We often remember a cousin’s grandfather, Mr. Chibitty, who was a Code Talker in World War II. As the last of the Comanche Code Talkers, he left an indelible mark on history. His tales of wartime courage and the kindness he showed to others after the war are lessons in duty, bravery, and compassion – qualities that continue to inspire our family and anyone who will listen to his stories where they’re shared.
There are the stories from Mr. Pond, a cherished family friend our children affectionately called “GrandPond.” He often told me how he “competed” with Elvis – yes, that Elvis – over the affections of a young lady “back in the day” (though I’m not sure exactly how true that was). He ran a sprawling ranch here in east Texas and embodied what it means to be a cowboy. It was on his land that I had my first face-to-face encounter with a black bear, after which Mr. Pond took to calling me “Spitfire” any time we went to visit. His stories and our time with him helped shape my view of adventure and, arguably, how to tell a good tall tale.
We also cherish the memory of my grandfather, a journalist who was in Dallas in 1963, photographing JFK’s parade. Sitting on his living room floor with him and my dad during a large family gathering, he shared photos and stories from that event, offering us a window into history, the weight of significant moments, and how to look beyond the story that’s offered to search for truth.
Other stories come from the sweet “auntie” who was in her 90s in the 1980s and her 70-something nephew, who shared stories of their lives, growing up as part of the first free generations in Louisiana. Ms. Myrtle refused to leave her land, but she baked cookies for the neighborhood kids in exchange for a good fish from their fishing trips – a testament to generosity and community.
There are countless more stories and remarkable people, enough to fill a book. Each tale – whether humorous, tender, or difficult – has given our family our history and traditions, taught perseverance, and shared a deep sense of love and connection with those around us. Through these stories and the elders who shared them, we see how courage, kindness, and community shape our lives and connect us across generations.
Karmin’s Blackberry Cobbler
Most cobbler recipes are the same; this one just has what Momo taught me to add, alongside the traditional preparation. I know that my great-grandmother wrote down actual measurements, but mine are all approximate because I rarely measure and just cook from memory and add flavors till the ancestors tell me to stop.
Filling ingredients
- 1/4 cup brown sugar
- Powdered ginger
- 3-ish cups blackberries
- Bit of orange juice
For the Pan: 1 stick of butter
Batter ingredients
- 1 cup flour
- 1 cup sugar
- Ginger
- Cinnamon
- Nutmeg
- 2 teaspoons baking powder
- 1 cup milk
- Prep your filling by placing brown sugar, a sprinkle of ginger, blackberries, and orange juice in a pot, and bring to a boil. It should sorta look like it’s attempting to become jam, but not quite.
- Melt your butter in a pan (I use cast iron, but any baking dish is fine) by sticking it in the oven while it preheats to 350 F.
- In a bowl, whisk together dry ingredients, including the spices. Add milk and mix until combined; the batter should be thin like a pancake batter.
- Get the baking dish out of the oven. Pour your batter into the dish and do not mix. Spoon in your filling as evenly as you can across the batter, but again, do not mix.
- Bake for about 45 minutes. Batter will rise over the fruit and get a nice golden brown. Let cool a bit and serve.
Originally published in the March/April 2026 issue of Grit magazine and regularly vetted for accuracy.
