Good Stuff

We spent a bit of time with my mother’s parents; mostly during the summer.  

My Grandma and Grandpa S lived in the largest town nearby.  A city, I guess, at least what we considered a city at the time. They lived in a story and a half, brick home with a large crabapple tree in the front yard along a busy street.  A large oak on the West side of the yard. A detached garage in the back with a side yard covered in grape vines and a poppy garden next to the garage.  

My grandpa owned a feed store, but I believe may have been semi-retired by the time we were kids. My grandma worked for a temporary employment agency, in the office, and continued to work there until we were teenagers.  

My grandma was a classic; having beautiful, shiny white hair for as long as I knew. She was tall and thin. A talented pianist, she had a baby grand piano in the living room, which she would play for us while we danced around.  

She also loved to sew and find crafts for us to work on together.  When my brother and I weren’t outside playing, she and I would play cards.  Nothing fancy or too complicated; mainly Rummy, or “98” or “31”. I realized much later in life that playing “98” and “31” had the result of my addition and subtraction skills being ahead of the curve in school when it came to basic math. It was a challenge I was good at, adding and subtracting numbers as quickly, bringing out my competitive nature early-on.  

My grandma was a great swimmer, and my brother and I were taught early-on to swim as well. While visiting in the summer, we were instructed on nice days, that we had to wait until it was at least 80 degrees outside to go swimming.  We would take turns standing at the phone, calling the time and temperature number over and over again until the recorded voice told us it was 80 degrees out.  Once it did, we were relentless in our quest to get to the public pool. She swam laps while we swam and goofed around.  Those were really good times. 

I have my earliest memories of my memorization abilities at my Grandma S’s house as well.  I discovered each time I would memorize a book passage, bible verse or a poem, it was met with great enthusiasm and fanfare. My memory seemed to be centered on a flow with an almost musical quality when I recalled the words. Of course, music seemed to be all around me, whether it was riding in the car, listening to Top 40 hits by The Carpenters, Chicago and Jim Croce, or hearing my grandma play older hits on her piano, like “Ball In the Jack” or “Buffalo Gal”.  

My grandma had a little silver piano music box that played “Somewhere My Love” (the theme from Dr Zhivago). I used to look forward to visiting, just so I could lift the lid of that tiny piano and hear that song. 

My Grandpa S loved baseball, cigarettes and beer. I don’t recall a time that he wasn’t watching a ball game, sitting on the back enclosed porch with his beer, or napping in the afternoon. We had to be very quiet while he was napping.  If it wasn’t nice weather out, we would crawl into a wrap-around closet in their bedroom and draw with our flashlights.  We would whisper and giggle about the pictures we drew; my brother drew tractors and farms while I drew tractors with grand rooms inside with all of the decor accompaniment.  

I don’t remember a tremendous amount about my Grandpa S.  I knew he was an alcoholic; a physically and mentally abusive one according to my mother. He wasn’t particularly engaged with us, or even friendly that I can recall, but I don’t believe he ever hit us in anger.  My mom told us stories later of how she limited our time with him; mainly because she knew he was always drunk and she did not want us riding in the car with him. I was never privy to the arguments, but I felt the tension on that side of the family, and don’t have reason to believe she was being inaccurate.  He spent a lot of time at the local bar up the street, which incidentally, had the best cheeseburgers I can recall eating in my life. A big, lighted Budweiser Clydesdale display rotated on the bar. I remember being almost mesmerized, watching it slowly whirl around. 

There was a large cemetery across the street we loved to play in. We weren’t always allowed to cross the busy street, but when our older cousin was there, we were allowed more freedoms.  He was from New York, and stayed in the attic bedroom while he visited.  I remember playing with the Ouija board with he and my brother, in the candle-lit attic attached to the bedroom. Sometimes we would sneak out at night and run across the street to the cemetery, attempting to jump out and scare each other behind the larger monuments.  It never occurred to us at the time, that it may be disrespectful to the families of the dead.  

Throughout my life, I have loved cemeteries. I’ve never felt more at peace than in cemeteries, or near water, and always with music.  That is where I find my peace when nothing else makes sense. 

Where do you find your peace?  Can it be traced to something in your childhood?

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