Porchlight Philosophy: Lessons From My Grandparents

There’s a different type of wisdom you gain when suicide sits at your family table. Suicide teaches you what silence really means. What the most painful grief cuts like. And how the smallest moments - like how the flicker of a grandparent's porchlight - can feel like a lighthouse in a storm.

Two of my grandparents took their own lives - one when I was in the second grade, the other when I was on the cusp of graduating high school. This type of loss doesn’t come with a manual, just a long echo that follows you through your life.

So most of the grandparent lessons I got came from one woman - my grandmother, Mamaw Peg.

Mamaw Peg: the woman, the myth, the meatloaf legend

And for eight years I was her only grandchild. Just me and her.

She didn’t sugarcoat a thing - except her graham cracker cake

She was no storyteller. No doting matriarch. She didn’t bake cookies or knit sweaters. But she did teach me “don't rely on no man,” and that “common sense ain't common," and - if you were reaching for a second helping at dinner - she’d look you dead in the eye and say: “back away from the table.”

Was it harsh? Yes. Did it stop me? Absolutely not.

But somehow, wrapped in her bluntness, there was always a message: this world isn’t soft, and if you’re gonna survive it, you better learn how to toughen up.

Porchlight Philosophy #1: “Damn It, Autumn: A Love Letter from the Passenger Seat.”

Some people learn to drive in quiet neighborhoods or empty parking lots. I learned on a backroad that snaked along an old strip job - narrow, dusty, and safe.

Mamaw Peg called it “the best place to learn,” mostly because there was nobody around to witness the chaos… or sue us if I hit a tree. Comforting, right?

She had this old Mercury Lynx that rattled like it was holding onto its last secret. And there she sat - arms crossed, cigarette dangling from her lip, barking instructions like a nicotine-fueled drill sergeant.

“Don’t slam the brakes so hard.”

“Damn it, Autumn.”

“Keep it between the ditches.”

(Life advice too, by the way.)

But here's the thing: that road, that old car, and that tough-as-nails (on the exterior) woman didn’t just teach me how to drive. She taught me how to navigate life - fear in the rearview, grit in the gas tank, and confidence just strong enough to make it through the curves.

This is her story. And mine. One “damn it” at a time.

Porchlight Philosophy #2: “Love isn’t always said - but it’s served.”

I didn’t grow up hearing “I love you” from Mamaw Peg. Not once that I can remember. She wasn’t made that way - at least not the way most people expect grandmothers to be.

She didn’t smother you in kisses or call you “sweetie pie.” She wasn’t going to hold your face in her hands and whisper affirmations.

But she told me. Oh, she told me.

She told me in every slice of her graham cracker cake - my favorite, always made without asking. She told me in her meatloaf, the only one I’ll ever compare all others to, because it tasted like home - whether we admitted it or not.

She told me when she packed up her things and came to stay with me - not once, but multiple times - when I had young kids hanging off both hips and exhaustion stitched into every hour of the day.

She’d catch me napping and do the laundry. That was her way.

And just like that, I knew. That was her “I love you.”

Her love didn’t come in hallmark packaging. It came in utility and presence. It showed up when the rest of the world expected you to handle it on your own.

Mamaw Peg’s love was never loud. But it was always there.

Her porchlight was always on - steady, unflickering, even when her words weren’t warm. And when the light from her lighthouse finally went dark, something in me dimmed, too.

I have missed her presence every day since. Not just the sound of her voice or the sharpness of her humor, but the comfort of knowing she was still there - somewhere - watching, judging, probably telling me I’m eating too much, and loving me in her own unshakable way.

These lessons she left behind? They weren’t wrapped in bows. They were wrapped in grit, and grief, and deep, unwavering love.

And I carry them with me now - everywhere I go. Because when you grow up by the porchlight, you never forget how to find your way home.