Grandma's House

Kirsten Trauntvein

A.P. English

This Old House

Never-ending are the stories, love, and efficient ways of Grandma that show their continual presence all around this sweet abode, so justly called “Grandma’s.”  The sun beats down on her old cared-for house.  Only the cracked worn surface of the black asphalt carport tells of the house’s actual age, otherwise forgotten.  Feelings, impossible to duplicate, are set free while the familiar sights, sounds, and scents reach out to welcome me.

Almost everyone has memories of grandma’s house, whether they’re pleasant or bitter.  The atmosphere, which is always impossible to duplicate anywhere else, surrounds and comforts the soul.  My grandma’s house is like this.

The house, covered with gleaming green-white siding and a big tin awning, is the center of Grandma’s many stories about her life.  Two porch swings silently wait, lacking the pressure of mother and child sitting upon it as they gently sway to the sweet tunes of a lullaby.  Soft, silky flowers alongside and in front of the house, humbly wait to be picked and given as gifts to mother.  Small, round pebbles are now gathered to replace the green soft carpet of grass that once beautified the landscape.  Children once ran through the grass, as they headed for the brown wooden door, placed neatly between the two porch swings.  Stories of Grandma’s days seem tangible to the human touch.

Laughter peals out from the solid, rectangular perimeter of the house.  Reaching out, I grasp the cold brass door handle, its unexpected coldness reacting with the warmth of my own fingers.  Swinging the door wide open, I enter into the familiar surroundings.  Grandma’s and Grandpa’s smiles adorn their cherished faces which are etched with age and kindness.  Crow’s feet appear at the edges of their twinkling eyes.  Hugs and kisses are readily given and accepted.  The smell of a well-prepared meal lingers in the air as we start to settle down while Grandma and Mom continue on to the kitchen.  Turning down the volume of the World Series being broadcasted on T.V., Grandpa sits in his white, leather reclining chair.  The calming voices of my dad and Grandpa talking about cars allows me to quietly survey the room, as I have done many times before.  Selecting the large orange floral-print couch, I sit, sinking into its surrounding warmth.  More laughter comes from the kitchen as Grandma tells Mom more of her life’s stories.  Behind the large couch, the sun’s rays are emitted though a large glass window.  Each ray gently finds and caresses something in the heavenly room.

No dust is seen on the surfaces in this room.  Efficiency, on Grandma’s part, is present.  Plastic, silk and real house plants are strategically placed around the room, still allowing for more decor.  Grandma’s collection of fake elephants in all shapes, sizes, and varieties are cluttered onto shelves that are separated from each other.  The plush brown-gold flecked carpet feels as soft as baby rabbit’s fur.  It’s cleanliness defying anything that tries to mar it.  Dirt and uncleanliness do not have a welcome place in this environment.  In the kitchen, Grandma stands over her boiling, aromatic pot of witch’s brew - she calls it spaghetti sauce.  The tantalizing aroma of the meal’s last minute preparations tease my nose.  Grandma’s Cordon Bleu cooking, like her cleaning, never lacks for anything.  Time doesn’t seem to matter.  Everything has its place, thus casting a sense of near perfection over the entire house.

As the day closes and the moon casts a rosy glow over the old house, another memory is placed in a file marked “Grandma’s.”  The old house has survived yet another day of unforgettable feelings and memories which will again be impossible to recapture.  The stories, competency, and love of Grandma will still forever reign, through cherished memories of Grandma’s old but beloved house.