My fondest memories of Grandma center inextricably around her kitchen. I cannot imagine her, even now, without her apron on. Grandma enjoyed cooking and baking for her loved ones and she was good at it. Now that I’ve raised children of my own and often have my grandchildren underfoot in the kitchen, I marvel at Grandma’s patience toward us. I remember standing on a chair and “helping” her to measure out a teaspoon of this or a dash of that. I always felt welcome in Grandma’s kitchen.
My earliest memories of Grandma and Grandpa are from when they lived in a small trailer on one of Grandpa’s construction job sites. I seem to remember it was quite out-of-the-way, a good long journey for a four or five year old girl to travel. I remember bumping along in our big tank of a station wagon, the sound of the tires crunching on the gravel road, and finally arriving at a padlocked gate that Dad would have to get out of the car to unlock.
The trailer was small, by no means a mobile home by today’s standards. There was a low, wooden porch in front and creaky wooden steps that let you inside. It had a small, enclosed room added on to the side for extra storage. That’s also where Grandma kept her sewing machine. Quilts, pajamas, play clothes, dresses, sixteen grandchildren and many others benefitted from her talent for sewing. On one of our visits there, my sister and I wore the brown taffeta Easter dresses Grandma had made for us. They were beautiful dresses with fitted bodices and full skirts. They made the most wonderful swooshing sound and were perfect for twirling around in. Years later, I remember seeing scraps of that same brown taffeta sewn into the design of one of Grandma’s homemade quilts.
One time, I remember staying overnight there with Grandma and Grandpa. I was by myself, my little sister being too young to stay away from home. The weather was hot. I remember the sound of the swamp cooler in the background working to cool us off. To stave off the heat, Grandma made me a big glass of iced tea with lots of sugar. I can see myself sitting at her little kitchen table, stirring and stirring to watch the sugar swirl around in the bottom of the glass. It’s odd, but I vividly recall the smell inside of their trailer. Because it was parked in the middle of a construction area, the trailer smelled of dust, which I’m sure permeated every crack and crevice available. At night, when I lay in bed, even the blankets and pillows smelled of dust.
Another time, I went to spend the night and go fishing with Grandpa the following morning. My recollection of the fishing excursion has faded, but I do remember going out the night before to gather crickets for bait. Grandpa carried a fly swatter and I carried a jar. There was a small shed next to the trailer with a light to illumine the way. Grandpa would slap a cricket with the swatter, and my job was to hold the jar while he scooped the stunned creature inside. I felt extremely important and trustworthy. After all, my small hand held the key to the next day’s successful fishing expedition.
I remember Grandpa’s big, rough hand around my own, leading me securely through the night. I was safe. If I were an artist trying to recapture this scene, I think I should paint it on an immense black canvas, as if from the vantage point of the summer’s nighttime sky. Radiating up through the darkness would shine a very bright light, the silhouette of an old man, a little girl, and the very warm glow of a memory.