Grandma’s House Jennifer Harper

My grandma spent so much time in the hospital the past few years that I never let myself believe that this might be her last visit or that she would not survive to see Christmas this year.  When my mom called me one day and told me that she would be coming home it was not because she was getting better but because the doctors had given up any hope of her surviving.  Her heart was weak and her lungs were filling with fluid that could not be drained fast enough.  She was loosing her strength rapidly.  She was coming home to die.

Her children, grandchildren, and other family members began to arrive at the little grey house on Stewart Avenue. All of them bonding together inside, but this time there would be no celebration of the birthday or holidays that usually gathered us together at grandma’s house in the past.

As I moved up the walkway of my grandma’s house cars whizzed by the busy street that ran in front of the house, going to and from their destinations as if nothing was wrong-busying themselves with last minute Christmas shopping. They were unaware of the hopelessness that had seeped over me like a dark cloud. Walking into the living room I remember feeling an overwhelming sadness fill me as my eyes caught the scene of my grandma lying helplessly in the huge hospital bed in the middle of the living room.

My mom and aunts tried to make the room seem inviting. With Christmas only a few days away the tree that just yesterday demanded full attention from the room with its sparkles and twinkles now cowered in the corner like a dark shadow.  The colorful quilt lying over the top of the hospital bed was making me sick to my stomach. Shades of brown, orange and burgundy that, at one time, brought comfort now seemed morbid. I felt like ripping it off the bed and screaming, “She doesn’t need this!” I wanted to curl up into a ball and forget this was happening. 

I desperately wanted to be eight-years-old again.  To look up at her glowing face and her rosy cheeks as she told me how precious I was and that she loved me so much.  To feel her arms squeeze me so tight next to her soft face that I thought I might never catch my breath again.  To see again those perfect red curls that the beauty shop pressed into her hair every Friday without fail. I wanted to feel the softness of her hands and finger tipped with manicured nails the color of pink bubblegum. Just to hear her voice one last time.  I longed for that famous southern accent of hers that remained constant even after she had spent so many years separated from her original home of Arkansas. But I was not eight and she was not going to do any of those things anymore.

**

Her casket was the color of the sky on a spring day.  Red carnations, her favorite flowers, sat on top.  The weather that day was exceptional for December.  The sun shined blindingly bright. I was worried for my mom.  She looked heartbroken and confused. Holding her head up was trying for her.  I wanted to tell her to break down, to kick, scream and throw a tantrum if she wanted to, that she could let everything she was feeling at that very moment flow from her. She was not obligated to remain strong for anyone.

As I stood outside the wooden gazebo at the cemetery where my grandma would soon be placed in the ground, I looked in through its huge picture window to see my mom draped over her casket, sobbing. I ran to her to comfort her and to try to make things better for her. For all of us. After several minutes she found the strength within herself to get up and walk away.  She looked confused, like a child who was lost. She turned to me and asked, “What am I going to do? I don’t have a mom anymore.”   I couldn’t find any words to sooth her feelings of despair.  Fear shot through me as I held my mom and realized how right she was. Saying it out loud made it final.  She no longer had a mom.

Shortly after my grandma died, my mom and aunt met at her house to pack up her things. My grandfather was moving out and he had decided to let the family take whatever they wanted in the home.  Any piece of jewelry, dish or knickknack that would help them keep her in their thoughts.  As I looked around the house, moving from one room to the next, I spotted it or maybe it spotted me.  Peeking out of a paper bag on the floor was the secret box.

Made of tin, it was shaped like a jewelry box and had a lid that clasped with a little gold latch.  Its brilliant aqua blue color along with embossed scenes of dancing ladies on salmon-pink background were eye catching to me as a child.  The lid had a brilliant gold border of curls and loops while the scene of a beautiful woman picking flowers was surrounded in raised tin jewels of bright colors. I was sure it was very expensive.

Always present on the dresser in my grandma’s room, the box stood surrounded with lotions, cold creams and perfumes. The intrigue of what was stored in that little box always caught me standing in front of her lace covered dresser tempted to look.  Just then, my mother would walk in and tell me to stay out of things that don’t belong to me.  As I got older I forgot about the tin box and my interest in finding out what was inside faded.

I sat on the couch with the box resting on my lap while my family bustled around me packing and moving things from one pile to the next for who would get what.  I was finally going to get the chance to open it and see what the mystery was. I slowly unlatched the clasp and opened up the lid.  My heart dropped as I looked in the box to find buttons.  Buttons, I couldn’t believe it. As a child I was sure it was filled with diamonds and other treasures.  The mystery was over. I was almost sorry that I had opened it.  I realized I didn’t care what was in the box. Only that the mystery of not knowing its contents was lost forever. I just wanted so badly to turn back time to when my grandma was alive and I was standing in front of her dresser surrounded by her lotions, cold creams, and perfumes.

After I found the box I was fixed on finding other things that would take me back to the time when my grandma was still alive. I replaced the buttons with one of my grandma’s wrist watch-the kind that has a little chain that hangs down from the clasp, a fancy handkerchief of hers, an old pocketknife that belonged to my grandpa, and a miniature photo album that was filled with old pictures of my grandparents and their families.  The last item I placed in the box was a program from my grandma’s funeral. Later I placed the box between two angel statues that also belonged to my grandma. The trio now rests on top of my desk in my bedroom.  Some days it gets passed by without a glance in its direction and other days it’s all that I see.  

After my grandpa moved out of the house my parents approached me with the idea of moving in. Of course moving from the dumpy townhouse, where my 9-year-old son and I were living at the time, into a bigger two-bedroom house with a yard seemed ideal. I was apprehensive at first because of the grief that I was sure I would go through moving into a home that was painted inside and out with memories of my grandma, but I also had a feeling of responsibility.  I knew that my grandma, as well as my mom, wouldn’t want it any other way.  To have a stranger move in would be unthinkable. 

A few days after I moved in, I found myself sitting in front of the linen closet one afternoon going through my boxes of towels and sheets.  As I opened the door a familiar smell met me. Just then memories flooded me as I found my nose buried in a tattered old quilt that had been shoved to the back of the closet. Boxes lay in front of me waiting to be unpacked, but all I could do was breathe.  Breathe in the sweet scent of my grandma.  

The smell took me back to times when I would spend the night at her house.  Although a lot of my evenings were spent at grandma’s house for various birthday parties or celebrations of sorts, spending the night was always a special treat.  I remember how she would pull out the hide-a-bed and make it up with fresh sheets and blankets.  Dressed in her flowered nightgown and hair wrapped with tissue and bobby pins, she’d tuck me in making sure I was snug.  I would drift off to the smell of grandma’s blankets and the sound of traffic outside.

I sat on the floor in the bathroom feeling uneasy and scared.  How could I feel at home when all these years it was known as my grandma’s house?  I felt I had so many things to live up to.  Would she have liked where I put the picture in the living room or agree with the paint I chose to decorate the bedroom. 

Better yet, how could I change this home that was so much a part of my family’s lives growing up?  This house was always the pit stop.  The little house located smack in the middle of town, was always filled with friends and family stopping by on their way home from work to say hello or someone who had passed by one-too-many times without stopping to see how grandma and grandpa were doing.  With five children, sons and daughter in-laws, along with thirteen grandchildren the house was never empty.  It didn’t matter if we came through the back door or the front, they both squeaked and they were both always open.

As a child, hot summer nights were spent playing hide-and-go-seek with my many cousins darting in and out of the huge trees in the front yard, so big that two of us were safely hidden.  The lawn was always felt so soft and lush on my bare feet as I danced and turned cartwheels from one end to the other.  

Christmas Eve was traditionally spent at grandma’s house. Everyone would come through the back door with arms full of different goodies and specialty dishes. Platters filled with Aunt Donna’s famous peanut brittle. Mom’s crock-pot wieners. Aunt Linda’s veggies and homemade dip.  We would all cram into the tiny living room, the children remembering how just the year before we were chosen to play Santa and hand out the gifts that were abundantly stacked under the tree. Grandma would sat at her usual place on the couch overseeing which gift went where and always making sure everyone liked what that got.  I’ve never known it any other way.  

Now change was in store and with that change, moving on was inevitable.  Was I or anyone in my family ready for that? I wasn’t ready to move on. I began to think of her things as a way of keeping her alive in my memory.  It upset me to think that the smell, taste, and feel of grandma would one day all fade. Would her memories fade too?

A couple of weeks ago while doing the laundry I was washing my linens. By mistake, I included my grandma’s tattered quilt with my other blankets.  Realizing I had washed the quilt, I immediately buried my face in it. The smell was gone. I sat in front of the dryer crying my eyes out because I had washed it out.  The smell of her and her comforting quilts and sheets.  The smell that I could never experience again.  The smell I depended on to keep her with me.

Soon I will take down the rooster wallpaper in the kitchen and the pink flowered border in the bedroom will be replaced.  Lavender plants are planned to take the place of the Mums blooming in the front flower bed. People are surprised at how different the living room looks with my overstuffed floral couches and bookshelves filled with pictures and candles. There aren’t as many visitors any more. 

I see the hurt in my mom’s eyes when she comes over. She is usually the first to drop by after I’ve moved into a new place.  Helping to pick out colors and wallpaper.  Confirming what picture goes where and which side of the room a lamp should sit.  She has neglected to be there for any of those things this time.  She hasn’t offered to help me decorate and she seems to be in a hurry when she does come over.  She says she is happy that I moved in, but I know she is also very sad.  I hope she knows I feel the same way. 

December is slowly creeping up on me now.  The one year anniversary of my grandma’s death is not far away. I wonder where we will spend Christmas this year and how different it will feel without her. The process of grieving the death of someone I love is all so new to me.  Am a doing it right?  How far am I in this process?  Am I almost finished? Does change mean forgetting?

As of yet, I haven’t forgotten her or the closeness we shared when she was alive. I still get sad and find myself breaking down in tears when I think of her, but it’s getting better.  Her grave still lacks my visit and the visit of almost everyone in my family.  Maybe we know that by going we will be one step closer to accepting that she is no longer alive.

I would like to say that I have found answers to all of my questions, but I haven’t and I’m not sure I ever will. I do know I have to keep talking about her and writing about her.  My grandma was full of stories and she was accused of talking too much sometimes, but I remember wanting to hear about her childhood, how she raised her children or how to maker her favorite canning recipe.  She passed these stories and images down to me and I know I must do the same. My children and their children have to know who she was. I have to make sure that changing does not mean forgetting.

© 2001 Jennifer Harper, All rights reserved.

Jennifer Harper lives with her son in Medford, OR. She is working towards earning her bachelor’s degree in journalism at Southern Oregon University. Jennifer worked as an intern at Life Challenges over the summer. Her focus is on feature stories, but she hopes to pursue a career in public relations one day. Contact Jennifer c/o info@lifechallenges.org.

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