There are places that only exist in my memories. Places, that if I got in my car and drove to the physical address, would no longer be there. One such place is my grandparent’s home of fifty years.
There were lots of shades of brown, from the wood paneling to the carpets. I remember brushing my teeth at the the white speckled linoleum sink counter in the bathroom. We sat at the kitchen bar and ate turkey sandwiches on squishy white bread. Seventies Tupperware cups of sweet tea, brown glass sauce pans with dinner bubbling inside, and the ever present water filter in the fridge. Family photos stuck to the fridge of the ten grandchildren, and eventually great-grandchildren. The basket of Bibles and devotionals beside the wall phone, read faithfully every morning.
The dining room, full of windows and the pewter dishes they brought back from my grandfather’s Air Force deployment to Norway. The hand carved wooden trolls who made the trip back resided in the den. My grandmother’s cross stitch, hooked rugs, and other handmade knickknacks hung on the walls. The house was full of lovingly preserved antique furniture from her childhood home. The black and white pictures of our Appalachian great grandparents stared severely down from the bedroom walls
I can see my grandparents’ chairs, side by side in the den, and remember being rocked in my Grandma’s lap. The stately Grandfather clock in the living room with the table where we played Uno. The cuckoo clock in the kitchen. I watched with fascination as Grandpa wound the clocks at night and heard their comforting ticks as we slept on the pull out sofa in the den.
The smell of mouthwash and Pond’s face cream when we kissed Grandma good night. We woke to the smell of percolated coffee every morning. Grandpa stood by the stove in his slacks, collared shirt, and shined shoes, cooking sausage in a cast iron pan for a big southern breakfast. Grandma cut out homemade biscuits on the counter with an ancient tin cutter.
I can still hear Grandma’s North Carolina accent lilting as she told stories about growing up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I close my eyes and hear her contagious laughter and see the twinkle in her eyes. Grandpa’s low, gravelly voice, his gold tooth, and the way his bony hand held mine so tight.
Grandma refused to let us do her dishes almost until the end, and I remember the rubber gloves she wore to hand wash them. The compost bin sat under the sink. Their garden was in the backyard, beside a forest of bamboo to play hide and seek. And we spent hours in the perfect climbing tree.
Their love was tangible. Grandpa came to get me after I got lost on my way there on Fall Break in college. Grandma and Grandpa met us in the driveway when we arrived, and waved to us when we left. I can see the swing chair on the front porch, where I held Grandma’s jaundiced hand tight. She always had beautiful flowers in her yard. The yard across the street had an enormous magnolia tree that we gazed at as we fought tears, knowing it was our last moments together.
They loved well, not through extravagance, but through simplicity and faithfulness. They sent birthday cards every year. They loved on us every visit. Sadly, their house is not the only thing that exists in my memories. My grandparents are there too. Like their home, I have to pull up pictures to look at them. I often wish they could’ve met my children.
Thankfully, because of our faith in Christ Jesus, we will meet again, and their house will be the only thing in my memories. “In the sweet by and by we shall meet on that beautiful shore.”
Kristi P. Powell 