Monday, May 2, 2016

Where He Was Born


“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.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Storyteller


Maintain a little mystery

Don’t grow up

You’ve got a shot at honesty

Tragedy and remedy

Life

It’ll make you a storyteller

With an audience of intrigue

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Part of the Dance

I used to love the music
And the life that it gave
I mused to crave the color
And the melody it made

Now I'm dancing around you in circles
Endless circles
You lead; I follow -- try to follow
But I'm taking three times
As many steps as you are; I'm running out of breath,
and I can't hold on.

We have to step in time with the music
An arm's length apart
fingers intertwined,
But I slip and lose grasp --
Frantic, I reach for your hand

Safe once again under your lead,
I dance around you in circles
Endless circled
Because it's all part of the dance

I used to love the music
And the life it gave
I used to crave the color
And the melody it made
But now I'm dancing around you in circles
Endless circles
Because it's all part of the dance.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Unravel


A weave of many colors

So blended

They have lost their own shine

Uniqueness hidden in the mosaic of thread

Of which the only way to see

Is for it to be unraveled.