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I always stayed up late watching old movies on the tv or playing minecraft on my computer. Eventually my eyes hurt and I would sneak to the kitchen to eat cookies, at this time the house was very still and the only thing you could hear was the ticking of my grandma's clocks. It's funny cause I never heard them during the day but in the middle of the night they echoed everywhere... in the dark the familiar house felt like another world and I would wander around peeking into every room, holding my breath as if the clocks were watching over the house while my grandma slept.
In the morning I'd find her in the kitchen in her bata, the only time I ever saw her in this vulnerable state, and we would share some more cookies, the sounds of the radio and the city outside... no more ticking. I have one of her clocks in my house now but I can never hear it !
4d ago
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☀️Ive been reminiscing over this place. It is my second home. Ive spent almost every sumer there with my cousins. I miss lying down on my hammock for hours. I miss chasing my cousins around the house. I miss playing soccor in front. I miss eating untill bursting. I miss the hot sun blazing on my forehead and the back of my neck. I miss sounds of the cars driving over the dirt road. I miss the sounds of people playing soccer out front. I miss the smells of strong tea and coffee all throughout the house. I miss listening in on the neighbors when they argued. I miss the sounds of chicken frying. I miss my grandma. I miss my family. I miss my home.
(In retrospect, it sound like a lot of whining.)
(In retrospect, it sound like a lot of whining.)
Mar 8, 2025
Rec
👴I remember driving out to my paternal grandpa Herb’s house in the lower valley, one of the oldest neighborhoods in town which was kind of an agricultural area where people had larger plots of land; irrigation ditches lined either side of the street. His neighbor had a pony that would sometimes be in their front yard, to my excitement and delight.
Upon our arrival, would sit me down in his living room, first thing, to give me porcelain dolls and Scooby Doo toys and VHS tapes he had ordered from QVC or catalogues. My dad’s and uncle’s playroom was still perfectly preserved as it was when they were kids in the 1950s, filled with their toys and books, the walls and decor all painted in bright primary colors of blue and yellow and red. My deceased grandmother’s pewter vanity set was still arranged on her makeup table in their bedroom, her glass shoe and bell collections still sitting on their display shelves atop a glass-topped desk lined with pink satin and lace. He had a huge library filled with books—Hemingway, Thoreau, Faulkner, Steinbeck, etc.
His kitchen smelled like the old bananas he would buy and forget to eat. I remember running out into his backyard in the winter to crack the frozen water in the stone bird bath and the dry mud beneath my feet; walking through the groves of pecan and pomegranate trees and picking up the fallen treats!
He had a stroke one day and was lying on the ground for a few hours before anyone found him. I remember finding out right before my mom took me and my sister to the grocery store—I said we should get him flowers. When we returned home, we learned that he had passed. I was 6 years old. I lamented that it couldn’t have been my other grandfather instead. I was even angrier now that he wanted me to call him Papa; that was a name that could only belong to Herb. We picked out all of his things to keep before the estate sale—my grandmother’s bells and shoes found a new home in my bedroom, on their same display shelf, which would become my desk; many of his books have moved with me wherever I’ve gone.
—
Visiting my maternal grandparents in third grade… my nice aunt was supposed to pick us up from DFW airport but something came up so my other aunt came instead. She was very late; we were sitting there for at least an hour, maybe two. I was reading my hardcover copy of Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis, which I had just won as a prize for getting first place in the spelling bee.
By the time my aunt finally came, my mother was in a tizzy—and it didn’t help that they already had a bad relationship. They started arguing with each other and my aunt dumped all of our luggage out of the trunk of her BMW in the middle of the pickup area road. They continued to fight on the drive, started slapping and clawing at each other with my aunt at the wheel.
We pulled over at a gas station in Grapevine, Texas and they got out of the car—screaming and hitting each other, circling the gas pumps. I was used to this kind of thing happening; I was just trying to focus on my book. Someone working at the gas station called the police. They asked my mom if she wanted to press charges against my aunt, who I guess was the primary aggressor, and my mom declined. The sheriff’s office gave me an honorary deputy sticker or badge.
My aunt’s millionaire new husband (when they met, she was married to her first husband, and he was her boss) retrieved our luggage from the airport and brought it to us, apologizing profusely. We walked to the Double Tree hotel across the street where my aunt’s husband had booked us a room; my grandfather was coming to get us now but he lived further out in the country, so it was going to be a while until he could get to us. I still remember the warm chocolate chip cookie they gave me at the front desk.
We waited in our room and looked up a pizza delivery place in the phone book. My sister had the worst ARFID I’ve ever personally seen in a person to this day, so it was a great victory that we were able to get her to eat pizza with red sauce—I remember feeling my mom’s tangible relief. The crust was thin and the slices were cut into squares.
My grandfather came after nightfall and we drove all the way home in what I recall to be terse silence—I was glad to be able to read my book now. My grandfather seemed to place all of the blame entirely on my mother, based on what I had heard of their brief conversation, which I thought was odd. We got out of the sliding doors of the Honda minivan and I felt the warm damp lake air hitting me like a wall, heard the crickets chirping in the dark. We entered the house through the garage and my grandmother gave me a stiff hug and a peck on the cheek to greet me before going to bed. She smelled like powder and tuberose. My mom had to pretend like nothing was wrong. We walked through their big empty house and went our separate ways—my mom went to her room and my sister and I settled into ours, trying our best to go to sleep in our frilly little twin beds.
Upon our arrival, would sit me down in his living room, first thing, to give me porcelain dolls and Scooby Doo toys and VHS tapes he had ordered from QVC or catalogues. My dad’s and uncle’s playroom was still perfectly preserved as it was when they were kids in the 1950s, filled with their toys and books, the walls and decor all painted in bright primary colors of blue and yellow and red. My deceased grandmother’s pewter vanity set was still arranged on her makeup table in their bedroom, her glass shoe and bell collections still sitting on their display shelves atop a glass-topped desk lined with pink satin and lace. He had a huge library filled with books—Hemingway, Thoreau, Faulkner, Steinbeck, etc.
His kitchen smelled like the old bananas he would buy and forget to eat. I remember running out into his backyard in the winter to crack the frozen water in the stone bird bath and the dry mud beneath my feet; walking through the groves of pecan and pomegranate trees and picking up the fallen treats!
He had a stroke one day and was lying on the ground for a few hours before anyone found him. I remember finding out right before my mom took me and my sister to the grocery store—I said we should get him flowers. When we returned home, we learned that he had passed. I was 6 years old. I lamented that it couldn’t have been my other grandfather instead. I was even angrier now that he wanted me to call him Papa; that was a name that could only belong to Herb. We picked out all of his things to keep before the estate sale—my grandmother’s bells and shoes found a new home in my bedroom, on their same display shelf, which would become my desk; many of his books have moved with me wherever I’ve gone.
—
Visiting my maternal grandparents in third grade… my nice aunt was supposed to pick us up from DFW airport but something came up so my other aunt came instead. She was very late; we were sitting there for at least an hour, maybe two. I was reading my hardcover copy of Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis, which I had just won as a prize for getting first place in the spelling bee.
By the time my aunt finally came, my mother was in a tizzy—and it didn’t help that they already had a bad relationship. They started arguing with each other and my aunt dumped all of our luggage out of the trunk of her BMW in the middle of the pickup area road. They continued to fight on the drive, started slapping and clawing at each other with my aunt at the wheel.
We pulled over at a gas station in Grapevine, Texas and they got out of the car—screaming and hitting each other, circling the gas pumps. I was used to this kind of thing happening; I was just trying to focus on my book. Someone working at the gas station called the police. They asked my mom if she wanted to press charges against my aunt, who I guess was the primary aggressor, and my mom declined. The sheriff’s office gave me an honorary deputy sticker or badge.
My aunt’s millionaire new husband (when they met, she was married to her first husband, and he was her boss) retrieved our luggage from the airport and brought it to us, apologizing profusely. We walked to the Double Tree hotel across the street where my aunt’s husband had booked us a room; my grandfather was coming to get us now but he lived further out in the country, so it was going to be a while until he could get to us. I still remember the warm chocolate chip cookie they gave me at the front desk.
We waited in our room and looked up a pizza delivery place in the phone book. My sister had the worst ARFID I’ve ever personally seen in a person to this day, so it was a great victory that we were able to get her to eat pizza with red sauce—I remember feeling my mom’s tangible relief. The crust was thin and the slices were cut into squares.
My grandfather came after nightfall and we drove all the way home in what I recall to be terse silence—I was glad to be able to read my book now. My grandfather seemed to place all of the blame entirely on my mother, based on what I had heard of their brief conversation, which I thought was odd. We got out of the sliding doors of the Honda minivan and I felt the warm damp lake air hitting me like a wall, heard the crickets chirping in the dark. We entered the house through the garage and my grandmother gave me a stiff hug and a peck on the cheek to greet me before going to bed. She smelled like powder and tuberose. My mom had to pretend like nothing was wrong. We walked through their big empty house and went our separate ways—my mom went to her room and my sister and I settled into ours, trying our best to go to sleep in our frilly little twin beds.
1d ago
Rec
I always take the winding two lane mountain road home from work, it’s 8 minutes longer and so much prettier than the interstate. I see longhorn cows, sheep, goats, fluorescent red sugar maples.
Yesterday I took a trip to visit my grandmothers grave with my mother and my 101 year old grandpa. Over a century later, he still remembers every old road and scenic back way to get around, who lived in what house, where they worked, who were friends, enemies, and lovers. He told me stories about every nook and cranny in that tiny town nestled among the Blue Ridge.
Building the church on the corner of the graveyard and using popcorn in the mortar which got so hot it popped. Exploring the flour mill with his friends which today is a miniature museum of the town history. How he and his fellow boy scouts used buckets and shovels to help fight the raging fire that spread across the mountain range. He showed me the railroad his father was a pipefitter on and the few blocks he walked to work, the corner their little dog would wait dutifully for his whistle to come running after hearing the work bell every evening. He sang me the song about catfish they used to sing while bathing in the calm river in the summer months, the same river that claimed the life of his brother in law.
I miss the city and our friends, but I know we have so much time to make our own stories in the decades to come. I feel so blessed that I have him in my life and to be living again in my hometown to hear these stories and so many others. I am so grateful that he gets to spend time with my husband and celebrate the joining of our families.
If you’re lucky enough to have a grandparent or any elder in your life, give them a call or pay them a visit and let them tell you stories, even the ones you’ve heard before. Ask questions about what it was like when they were your age and tell them how much you love them.
Yesterday I took a trip to visit my grandmothers grave with my mother and my 101 year old grandpa. Over a century later, he still remembers every old road and scenic back way to get around, who lived in what house, where they worked, who were friends, enemies, and lovers. He told me stories about every nook and cranny in that tiny town nestled among the Blue Ridge.
Building the church on the corner of the graveyard and using popcorn in the mortar which got so hot it popped. Exploring the flour mill with his friends which today is a miniature museum of the town history. How he and his fellow boy scouts used buckets and shovels to help fight the raging fire that spread across the mountain range. He showed me the railroad his father was a pipefitter on and the few blocks he walked to work, the corner their little dog would wait dutifully for his whistle to come running after hearing the work bell every evening. He sang me the song about catfish they used to sing while bathing in the calm river in the summer months, the same river that claimed the life of his brother in law.
I miss the city and our friends, but I know we have so much time to make our own stories in the decades to come. I feel so blessed that I have him in my life and to be living again in my hometown to hear these stories and so many others. I am so grateful that he gets to spend time with my husband and celebrate the joining of our families.
If you’re lucky enough to have a grandparent or any elder in your life, give them a call or pay them a visit and let them tell you stories, even the ones you’ve heard before. Ask questions about what it was like when they were your age and tell them how much you love them.
Nov 2, 2024
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4d ago
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Do I buy them so I can free them from their evil prison, but feed the system that trapped them there in the first place .. ?
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