In this portrait, my grandmother is doing what she always did best. Standing tall. Focused. Hands steady. Pressing comb in one hand, confidence in the other. If you look closely, you can almost hear the sizzle and smell the pressing oil. That is not just hair she is styling. That is legacy being laid smooth.

Her name is Doris Odessa Davis Hankins, born in Southport, North Carolina, to Maverick and Elmer Davis. The oldest child. Which means she learned early how to lead and how to carry.

At twelve, she took over the organ at church from her mother. Twelve. Feet barely long enough for the pedals but already trusted with the sound of Sunday morning. By thirteen, she was a mother herself. Life moved fast, and she kept pace.

Most people knew her as Dottie.

At church, she was not just the organist. She was the director of all the choirs. If you sang under her, you learned quickly that there was a specific kind of alto she expected. Not loud. Not lazy. Intentional. You had to mean it.

She would stop rehearsal mid-verse and say, “Listen to the lyrics of the song you sing. They mean something.”

And everybody straightened up.

There is one song in particular that folks still talk about. “Ole Ship of Zion.” Nobody sings it like they do at Mt. Carmel because Grandma took two different versions and blended them like she was in the kitchen. The transitions were smooth. The chords hit just right. Other churches may have the same tempo and tune, but something is always off. The turn is too sharp. The shift too clumsy. That is because they did not have Doris Hankins arranging it by ear and by instinct.

She told her grandchildren and great grandchildren all the time, “Talk to the Lawd. He will hear you.” And she believed that. Not as a slogan. As fact.

Now let’s be clear. She was holy, but she was also human.

During the week she was the best press and curl stylist in Brunswick County. You could not sweat out her curls. Baby, you had to wash them out. Women walked out of her kitchen looking like they had somewhere important to be. And they did. Confidence is an appointment.

On the weekends she liked to enjoy herself. The Dew Drop Inn saw her more than a few nights. That purse she carried so tight did not hold a Bible. It held Passport Scotch. And legend says when she caught her husband stepping out of line, she corrected the situation with that very purse. Bottle included. Head, neck, and shoulders. Consider it handled.

She was serious about her marriage and serious about her respect.

Entrepreneurship was in her spirit too. She made the best Brown Dogs in Brunswick County. Peanuts and molasses cooked down into something that stuck with you. When Jimmy Carter was president, she figured a peanut farmer in the White House might be her big break. She reached out to make a business connection. It did not turn into a contract, but they did send her a box of peanuts. She took that as confirmation that closed mouths do not get fed.

And the kitchen. Lord, have mercy.

Her crab cakes. Her shrimp perlo. Her fried chicken. That lemon cream pie with meringue sitting high and proud on top. The only person who can duplicate that pie is Lisa. That is not opinion. That is consensus.

One Thanksgiving she came to my house and we made a sweet potato pie together. She told me to add two glups of milk. I asked what a glup was. She said, “Glup, glup.” That was the measurement. No cups. No spoons. Just her hands and her eyes. And somehow it came out perfect.

That is how she lived. By feel. By faith. By knowing.

Years of standing on her feet gave her arthritis. Eventually, her legs would not cooperate anymore, and she spent her final years in a nursing home. Her body slowed down, but her mind stayed sharp. She fully believed she could run the world from that room. And honestly, she probably could have.

On holidays, she expected her choirs to come sing for her. Especially her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. One year, we brought the entire Easter program to the nursing home. She smiled so wide it lit the room.

“I told y’all my churren can sing,” she said, proud and satisfied.

At eighty-nine, she said she was tired. She declined her C pap and went to sleep. My sister said her face looked pleasant, like she had finally seen someone she had been waiting for.

That tracks.

Because if anybody deserved a grand welcome, it was Doris Odessa Davis Hankins.

In this portrait, she is styling hair. But what you are really seeing is a woman who could arrange a choir, command a room, cook without measuring, love without apology, defend what was hers, and pray with conviction.

She was reverent. She was real. She was hilarious. She was formidable.

She was one of one.

And we are still living in the shine she pressed into us.

-Dierdre R. Parker