a lovely sunday afternoon

These three together = happiness in a nutshell.

Two Grandma-greats. Baby Naomi is nearly 91 years younger than
Grandma Grettle (in pink) and 100 years younger than Grandma Thelma (at right).
Pretty remarkable, if I do say so myself.

around the world

Grandma taught me that sewing thread is strong. We'd sit on the floor of the sewing room and watch her foot work the pedal of the sewing machine, bobbing up and down, up and down, waiting for a pair of shorts, or a summer skirt, or a bag to carry our music books to and from lessons. Sister and I would thread a needle, dip our hands into a mason jar of buttons, and choose the largest one of the bunch for the beginning. Making one long button train, we'd only stop when the thread was oh-my-heck-up-to-its-neck in buttons. Then we'd carry the caterpillar-like band of button brothers over to Grandma. She would tie a strong knot on the end. Button chain stuffed into a pocket, we'd go on with our playing, usually throwing Grandma's homemade bean bags into baskets until our summer sewing projects were ready for wearing.
* * *
It was the last walk for a long, long time. The conversation jumped from here to there as we interrupted each other, no common thread to our thoughts, except that we know one another inside and out. Frontways. Backways. Sideways.

I tried not to think of tomorrow as we stepped to the sounds of summer, ponytails and swishy skirts blowing in the wind. Just as the street began to slope, I stopped. Stopped walking. Stopped listening. I wished Time would follow suit. My thoughts trailed off into uncertainty. I got over the initial shock of the thought of not being together. Of here and there and this place and that place and before I realized, we were almost home. We sat on the grass and laughed as if the next night we'd be walking the same path of pavement, past the same lantern-lit porches.
* * *
When the sewing needle stopped its up and down, we'd take our button garlands over to Grandma. She would cut the thread over the mason jar. Leaping free, they would all fall into the jar, like sand into an hour glass, filling up where time had left an emptiness. They were home.
* * *
Now we each walk different streets, separated by time zones and cultures and climates. The one common thread that binds us is home, a thread that now stretches around the world, intrinsically connecting us back to our beginning.

the red brick house

In the red brick house with the round table and the quilt with the big red square, my sister and I shared a room. We had matching bead spreads; white with blue and yellow flowers. We lined our stuffed animals up on the windowsill and at night, Dad would sit between our beds and make up bedtime stories. Sometimes he'd nod off, and from our twin beds we'd shout, "Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad!" There was a laundry shoot and we took turns dropping a bucket full of "surprises" down to each other.

Red tulips poked up through the soil in the spring. The droopy branches of the birch tree made for a shady spot and there was room to roller skate on the cracked driveway. Aunt B picked us up for teddy bear pancakes at Ruth's Diner on Saturdays. And, when the gardening was done, Dad gave us rides in the wheelbarrow, down the sloped driveway and across the street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. In summer, we'd pick mint leaves in the yard to flavor homemade lemonade. We'd set up shop on the corner, shouting at all passers-by and counting quarters when the red thermos was empty. Mom drove us to swimming lessons in the green Volvo. She let us stretch out in our wet suits in the back seat all the way home. In the fall, we walked to school with Emily and raked the yellow leaves that fell from the birch tree.

When we moved from the red brick house into the white house, our flower bead spreads came along. Sister and I no longer shared a room; she slept down the hall. Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, I would sneak into her bed just after she'd fallen asleep. The quilt with the big red square was still neighbors with the round table, as it had been at the old house. There was a bathroom with sparkly butterfly tile and a basement with lots of room to play. We hopped the fence to school, and after Dad got home from work, he'd take us to the playground to shoot hoops or run the 50 meter dash. For our birthdays that November, Emily made sister and me a swing to hang from the tree in the backyard. Dad helped us tie it tight around a strong branch above lots of yellow leaves. I met another girl named Emily who lived at the top of the street. I'd walk home from school with her sometimes. Her Korean nanny would make us Top Ramen for lunch on Fridays. We'd spend the rest of the afternoon playing American Dolls.

My parents don't live that far from the white house. Not far at all. The quilt and table are still the best of friends. The wood swing hangs from a cherry tree which drops lots of yellow leaves each fall. Sister lives in a house of her own, and our bedspreads are long gone. Soon Dad will give grandchildren rides in the wheelbarrow and tell them bedtime stories, perhaps about two little girls who lived in a red brick house.

between four walls

I spent part of my afternoon at 1932 today. Grandma and I spent time going through photos and rearranging art in the dining room. It was much needed; to be in that house, around her, among those things -- pictures of her and the family. Pictures of grandpa, handsome in his navy whites. A picture of the house in Iowa with the attic room long enough for the boys to throw the football indoors and far enough away from the rest of the house for noisy card games on Christmas morning before it was time to unwrap presents.

I spent time running up and down the stairs searching for a few things for our project today. One of my favorite views of Grandma's house is the one from halfway down the stairs, just as your hands hit the banister. The front half of the living room is visible, the mantle, the little desk and chair and the oil painting near Aspen Lane. You can see the alcove where the doorbell chimes hang and the little picture of the sunflowers right beside the latch to the front door. Out the window nearest the fireplace is the side yard where the peonies bloom along the picket fence in the summer, filling the yard with fragrance.

From that fixed point today, I thought, I hope someday to have a home as lovely as this, full of things with meaning and memory. A summation of a life well-lived. A place where children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren can come and sit and stay awhile and listen to stories about Cape Town and Stockholm, Pelham or Brigham. A place to send thank you cards and letters from far away places. A place where wedding pictures gather above bookshelves on the landing upstairs and mementos are tacked up on the bulletin board in the basement bedroom. A home that says hang your hat, rest your head and help yourself to the Snelgroves in the freezer.

Grandma's home is lovely from any angle. I have memories from every nook and cranny in that house. From the green laundry room downstairs to the off-white closet in the room where Mom and Karen used to sleep. I love that house. I love the feeling I get when I walk in the backdoor or drive up the street and see the shutters open or the light on over the sink where the green glass rests on the windowsill. But mostly, I love Grandma. I love who she is, what she has accomplished and the person I want to become after spending together.

89 years ago today

To this sweetheart of Sigma Chi, mother of 11, grandmother of 45, great-grandmother of 34 (and counting - help! I've lost track), world's best apple crisp, roast beef and mashed potato, oatmeal cookie (to name but a few) maker, Snelgrove's sneaker, Frango mint savor-er, seamstress, quilter, weaver, teacher, pilot, world traveler, missionary, wife, daughter, sister and friend...HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA! I adore you.

blue and orange

I slid off my shoes, bright red toes complimentary to the green grass which felt cool and cushy on my feet. The September breeze blew through my hair, wafting the smell of shampoo across my nose. Mom scaled the ladder to reach the ones at the top. I started low, remembering what Grandma said: If they don't come off with one twist, they aren't ready. I stuck my hand under the dark green leaves and felt for fuzz. Grabbing hold, I tugged. I placed the first one in the bag and went back to the same spot. By the time Grandma joined us, both of our bags were brimming.

I like to find the ones that are almost round; the ones with dark plum-colored underbellies I can press my thumb into, proving them ready to eat and branding them mine.

The three of us picked for a while more, Grandma divulging her canning and freezing secrets as she twisted, one peach at a time.

Her blue bowl was sitting on the small table in the kitchen along the wall. It's the table that was at our house along our wall while she and Grandpa were in Sweden. The blue pitcher always sits beside it. The bowl was full of peaches, the orange complimentary to the blue.

Stepping on the stool, I reach for my blue bowl next to the blue pitcher on the top shelf. I fill it with peaches, placing the roundest one on top, plum-colored belly up.

Summer on 9th

Summer on 9th South meant tuna sandwiches at the table with Grandma and Grandpa. (They like to call it supper instead of dinner). It meant a new pair of summer shorts fashioned by Grandma from phone call to finished product in 30 minutes, tops. Any fabric in her collection was ours for the taking. The sewing room doubled as a guest room, the door of which was plastered with stickers by Uncle Roger and David; a collection of their high school and college years. Their old bunk beds served as stern and bow for numerous voyages out to sea, Marshall, Libby, Winton and I taking turns at the helm.

Summer meant time with cousins from all across the country; Grettle's van parked under the tree by the patch of strawberries on the east side of the house where snails slid across the cement, hoping for an outing on the grass. It meant slumber parties with Anna and Meka in the spare bedroom upstairs where Mom and Karen used to sleep. They shared everything from late night gossip to jewelry to Mom's Frye boots, even if Karen didn't ask permission. Summer meant time in the garden with Grandpa, pulling up carrots and snacking on sugar peas. It meant Sunday dinners on the deck with the whole family and ice cream cones on the green benches where we liked to dangle our bare feet above the front porch. It meant piggy back rides to the park and under dogs on the swings. It meant popsicles from the big white freezer in the family room full of frozen peaches to top all sorts of delicious desserts.

Summer on 9th South meant tearing old sheets to help Grandma make rag rugs which still cover every kitchen from Boston to the Big Apple to Beach houses in Southern California. It meant fresh sheets out of the dryer in the laundry room with the green walls and the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. It meant perfectly made beds, corners tucked and turned down just so by Grandma. Summer on 9th South meant dividing up reunion t-shirts by family, from youngest to oldest, in piles on the family room floor. It meant togetherness, traditions, and the slow hum of the swamp cooler. It meant sewing together strings of buttons and bean bag tosses outside in the side yard. It meant fresh oatmeal raisin cookies for Grandpa, chocolate chip cookies for the grand kids and dough for the tasting.

There are still goodies in the freezer, rag rugs by the back door and fresh sheets on all the beds. I'm now give piggy backs instead of getting them and the walk to the park doesn't seem that far. But summer on 9th South remains the same - Grandma at the loom or on the sewing machine, evenings on the porch with cousins from near and far. We dangle our feet from the benches moving them to and fro and talk of memories, like swings, rocking back and forth inside our minds.