Memories of Mom

The scent of slow-simmered collards and warm cornbread was the first thing to greet you at Miss Carrie’s door. To her, a recipe wasn’t just a list of ingredients; it was a prayer you could taste. Born in the shadow of Lookout Mountain in Sulphur Springs, Alabama, she carried the quiet strength of those hills with her every day. Folks used to say those local waters had healing powers. But, I knew real healing happened at my Mother’s kitchen table.

She eventually traded the Alabama springs for the bustling aisles of Rich’s in Atlanta. For many years, she was part of the steady heartbeat of that legendary store, offering customers the same grace and patience she gave her family and friends.

When the workday ended, this "Angel from Alabama" returned to her true sanctuary. With a Bible worn soft at the edges and a cast-iron skillet that had seen a lifetime of Sunday dinners, she raised a family on faith and fried chicken. She didn’t just feed bodies; she fed souls, reminding everyone who sat with her that they were loved, seen, and never beyond the reach of God’s love and mercy.

Angel From Alabama

The mountain stood as witness to her birth,

Where healing waters bubbled from the red clay earth.

A daughter of the springs, with spirit bright and deep,

With promises to God she meant to always keep.

She brought the Alabama hills to city streets,

In the grace of her walk and the food she made sweet.

At Rich’s, she laboured with a servant’s kind heart,

But the kitchen was where she performed her best art.

A pinch of white flour and a heavy iron pan,

The touch of a mother, the work of her hand.

Her table was a pulpit, her apron a shroud,

A quiet, holy light that stood out from the crowd.

Now the "Angel from Alabama" takes her sweet rest,

Of all the Southern mothers, she truly was the best.

Though the springs may run dry and the mountain may fade, I still walk in the light of the love that she made.