“This
is probably your last time to see Grandpa’s house.” My mother informed me while
I was home from college. “Let’s go.” I voiced my eager response. I needed to
see the house one last time. Trying to comprehend that this was the final time
that I would ever see Grandpa’s house was difficult. In a sense, it seemed to
be harder for me than it was for him. I could only think that I would never get
to drive along the rough backroads to get to his house again, through the
cornfields and past the windmill; family thanksgiving would not be the same if
it was not in the old, wood-paneled kitchen. It was a lonely thought that I
tried to push out of my mind.
It
was not much to look at – the house. It must have looked sight-worthy and
proper at one point, but now it was old and worn. Various unused farm buildings
sagged throughout the shaggy yard. Overgrown, untamed flower beds wove a
disoriented rainbow of color through the shining personality of the tiger
lilies, johnny jump-ups, daises, tulips, and various other flowers that Grandma
used to point out. The windows, tired from a lifetime of weather, had lost
their stained finish long ago and were a pale, white-grey contrast to the
blue-grey siding. Around the house there were multiple doors that were locked
and never used. The house looked tired; perhaps, it was the wornness that made
it look like a home.
The
sight was familiar. I had pulled into the driveway hundreds of times, spent
countless Sunday afternoons and every Thanksgiving with Grandpa at his house.
Now, this was the last time. I made my way to the front door, stepping along
the uneven, cement block path. To the left, it was lined by wild ranks of
chives that poked up in every direction. I proceeded along the path until I
reached the three stairs and small porch that my dad had built. It was nothing
fancy, just a few 2x4” and 4x6” inch pieces of wood fit together so that made
it easier to shovel snow and clear ice in the winter. At the top of the stairs,
a solid white door with a brass handle barred the way into the house. I grasped
the handle, twisted it, and pushed my shoulder into it, forcing the door open.
“Grandpa?”
I questioned in louder-than-usual voice, “We’re here.” In a moment he emerged
from the kitchen where he was preparing our supper. He always dressed the same
way, a Green Bay Packer hat on his head, a flannel over a plain white T-shirt,
a pair of worn, nearly white jeans, and a pair of dirty, ragged tennis shoes.
“Hello.
How are you?” Was his concise greeting. His voice was the same as always, husky
and a little louder than necessary to make up for his dulled hearing.
“Wonderful,”
I said as eased slightly onto my tiptoes to I give him a hug. At one point I had
been the same height as Grandpa, but now I was a little taller. He wrapped his
arms around me in response and gave me a few pats on the back. I did not have
to see his hands to tell that they were big. Grandpa had farm hands – huge
hands with each of his fingers having the same width as three of my delicate
ones. I drew back from the embrace, leaving my hands to rest on his shoulders.
This was my Grandpa in his home.
It was his home in a greater way than most people might
think. See, Grandpa was born in that house. He had never lived anywhere but in
that house in Dresser, Wisconsin, never had a different address, never had a
different phone number. This was Grandpa’s home.
I followed him towards the kitchen. Everything was still
the same as I remembered it always being. The linoleum floors were stained a
permanent yellow-brown color from the decades of dirty farm boots that had
stomped across it. The walls were all dark wood paneling that stretched from
the floor to the ceiling. Up and down, parallel with the grain of the wood,
were little grooves that outlined the separate boards. When I was little I
remember intentionally pressing in particular, calculated places on the walls
in order to try to find a secret compartment like the ones that I had read about
in Nancy Drew. I never did find one, but I never gave up trying. The kitchen
table was a sturdy plastic and metal, grey and white piece of furniture that
had been in the house since my grandpa and grandma were married. It was covered
in current and outdated newspapers, maps that my grandpa studied, a black tea
kettle, peanut butter, and homemade blackberry jam. The six chairs that lined
the table were matching white color, thanks to my grandma who had covered them
with hand sewn vinyl covers.
The
kitchen was fully visible from the dining table. Cupboards that matched the
dark wood paneling on the walls were filled from top to bottom with Grandma’s
dishes. One drawer held a dented wooden case that latched shut; it held her
fine silverware that she used only for Thanksgiving. The box was lined with red
velvet and held forks, knives, and spoons. On the end of each utensil a flower
was engraved and etched up the length of the handle – pretty, but not too
extravagant. Grandma’s holiday silverware was not actually fine, but living her life on a limited farm income, it was the finest
silverware that she had, and it was a nice change from the dull everyday
utensils that were used. The other cupboards held enough dishes to prepare and
serve food to an entire army, and other miscellaneous trinkets, but not a
single cupboard held a cookbook. Grandma had a whole bookshelf devoted to
cookbooks. I still do not know why she had so many; grandma never used
cookbooks, she relied on her lifetime of experience, observant eyes, and
skilled hands to make delicious food.
Rather than settling in the kitchen with the rest of the
family, I meandered to the various other rooms of the house. It already looked
vacant, for, although everything was still in the house, it was all packed up
and ready to be moved out. A few select things were not put away, among them
were pictures. I peered down at a colorless brown and white photo. It captured
the face of a teenage boy next to a horse. The boy had a half grin on his face
and hair that stuck up in distinguished, peculiar ways. The horse was a large
one and dark colored. I did not need to ask Grandpa who was in the photo; it
was my grandpa and his horse Queen. Queen and May were his favorite team of
horses. He learned to drive the team of black Percherons them when he was six
years old, and after a lifetime of hard work and experiences, he still
remembers them.
I moved on to other rooms in the house. The sewing room –
the room where my grandpa was born – was once the master bedroom. I knew it as
the sewing room; it reminded me of Grandma. We had spent hours in that room
slaving over sewing patterns, measuring and cutting things just right. The
large, sliding-door closet had once been filled from floor to ceiling with
yarn. Grandma used to sit and knit of crochet all day; she passed on her skill
to me. When I visited we would always talk about our latest projects and spend
time digging through bags of purple yarn until we found the perfect shade of
violet for a project.
Upstairs,
up the old, winding staircase that creaked and moaned with every step no matter
how softly a person eased on to them was a place that seemed to be filled with
secrets. I crept up the stairs the best I could to the bedrooms that my father
had shared with his older brothers. These too were empty, but had once been
lined with three beds; one room was for the boys; one room was for the girls. I
could only imagine the late night talks, secrets, memories, gossip, discipline,
and time that had been experienced in those rooms. In fact, the whole house was
full of memories. Grandpa was born in the sewing room. One of the kitchen table
chairs was scarred with puncture marks from one my cousins, who, when he was
young, got ahold of a scissors and had some fun. At that same kitchen table my
dad and his older brother gobbled down the rest of their dinner before their
sister and boyfriend could arrive. Unfortunately, the older sister did not get
to serve her boyfriend homemade food for that meal. Even I have memories from
the house. As a child I would sneak candy from the candy cupboard, offering a shy
grin when I was caught every time. As a teenager I stepped across the threshold
of Grandpa’s house to announce to the family that I had been a successful deer
hunter. Every summer I toiled in Grandpa’s garden, helping cultivate, harvest
and preserve green beans, onions, corn, tomatoes, peas, zucchini, butternut and
acorn squash, raspberries, strawberries, grapes, blackberries, and black-caps.
After growing from the light of the sun, each of the item of produce that was
harvested tasted like sunlight, even in the dead of winter. I had never resided
in Grandpa’s house, but I had lived there. I had lived life at Grandpa’s house
that I would have never experienced anywhere else in the world, and I had
memories to show for it.
I was going to miss the house, and all the memories that
I had there, but as I walked through the house that day, I realized – Grandpa
was leaving his house, not his home. His home was the people that he lived with
and was around. Since his kids grew up and moved out, since Grandma died, he
was only living in a big empty house. Even though it was saddening to me that
Grandpa was selling his house, he was not selling the time that he had spent
there and the memories that he had made. I finally understood; it was just a
house.
