With all our moving about as a military family in my childhood,
Grandma's house was the one constant, the touchstone of my childhood. I'll
always remember the long drives up the east coast, the last hour's drive
along the Merritt Parkway and how, by the end of the drive, late at
night, we would crest one ridge after another on the parkway and to see
lights twinkling in the valleys below as we got closer and closer to
Grandma's house. I remember her always waiting up for us, no matter how late
-- it felt so wonderful to have someone so eager to see me.
I remember the rasp of her storm door on her sun porch, the african
violets and geraniums on the ledges, I remember exhaustedly slipping
between the sheets of the sofa bed in the cold, cold attic as the space
heater whirred. And waking up the next day to such a magical space, with
the tiny, elf-door that lead into the attic crawl space and the
suitcases and boxes full of the fascinating odds and ends one collects in a
lifetime.
Grandma's house to me was childhood, more than anywhere else. And she
was such an iconic figure, the one who fed us and hugged us and slipped
treats into our hands at the end of our visits. She was the feeder of
birds and squirrels and dogs and cats. She seemed so earthy and grounded
and steadfast to me. What a gift to have such a presence in my
childhood, such an anchor to tether my sense of home to.
I love you Grandma. Thank you for being there for me.
Love,
Suzie, as she often called me...