Authors Note: This story doesn't apply to the prompt in any way. This is just a peek into some of the drama of my life. This is by no means my full-out story. But this is just a thank you to the people who have cared and put thought and effort into their comments. But regardless, this is my experience at Grandma's House.
Every Friday night turned into every other random day, which turned into once a couple of weeks. Which then in an instant turned into not at all. This is my recollection of grandma’s house.
I remember when happiness once surged through my bones and buzzed coursed through my flesh at the simple statement, “We are going over to grandma’s house!” Greetings and love endearments were spread throughout the house before we scattered to find fun in other objects. Normally me and my sister to the computers. More recently the adults taking to the front porch to do their boring adult talk. Sometimes when the computer ensued boredom, we would find ourselves in the backyard jumping on the trampoline which was surrounded by beautiful trees kept healthy, common courtesy of my grandpa. I remember playing Indians in the backyard, not thinking the name was racial in the slightest. My cousins and I would sneak tools from the shed and try to create houses from the spare wood. When leaves had fallen in great multitudes in the fall we would create large open-faced holes in the leaves. We played different childhood games like hiding and seek in the dark, and what time is it, Mr. Wolf. Trampoline games were among one of the favorites of them. Commando was an invisible shooter game my cousins and I played around the house.
When the shooting was just a made-up game we all played. When nothing else mattered, just the company of others. When politics never made the topic of interest in our conversations. When we were still all together as a family. Swimming laps in blow-up pools and gigantic expensive pools. Playing in the water at grandma’s house just seems like a mere pastime. Watching sappy movies with grandma in the living room whilst eating bagged popcorn and sipping a Pepsi on the side. Or sitting at the table and playing cards or Chutes and Ladders with grandpa. Or playing in the yard with the puppies. Sitting around the fire late at night, trying to forget it was time to go home. Running around senselessly, just living in the moment. Running races around the garden. Pushing little cousins on the plastic blue swing. Making the biggest sandcastles in the sandbox. Pushing each other’s weight on the see-saw. Trying to climb the highest tree.
Of course, these memories were the best, but when paired with food it was even better. The food prevalent during these memories was just as important. When I was about 9 or 10 I would tug on my grandmother’s sleeve and request a Pepsi, but my voice never rose more than a whisper in fear my mother would hear me. Grandma would always chuckle and her only comment, “You’re allowed to do what you want when you’re at grandma’s house.” Or the joy I could see in grandpa’s eyes when he announced he had ice cream in the freezer. Thanksgiving was always the best treatment when we would lay out a long table and share stories from school or what we had recently seen on tv, just catching up with family. On Christmas mornings, it was always presented then food, as we indulged in Christmas ham and turkey, and always pie afterward. More often than not the cousins and siblings sauntered to the garage, where we would eat and either talk, play cards, or start a game of foosball. No one ever making a comment on how much food you would intake, because no one ever cared. Or there was always a bucket full of Dubble Bubble gum in the top cabinet. Taking handfuls of the wrapped candy and stuffing each piece in our mouth, then running to the backyard to not get caught. The occasional treat would be the multi-flavored pieces. I remember helping grandma in the kitchen, cooking up cakes, and teaching me to make homemade donuts. I remember grandma giving me recipe after recipe to take home and use. Pixie sticks were also kept in the upper cabinet reserved for the eyes of the adults. Often the adults would crack open a cold one and sit around the fire pit and share ancient experiences and stories of their past.
But all good things must come to an end eventually, right? The first devastating downfall was the loss of my best friends. My male and 1 female cousin dropped a bombshell and told us they would be moving on to Pennsylvania. This devastated me and I’m sure my family as well. This was when the visits got less and less numerous. Less and less frequented. Now instead of 3 families going to grandma’s house, it was only 2. The arguments got more, and hurt feelings began to arise. There was one more final and huge argument that sent everything crashing down. The main focus and problem of the argument were so insignificant that it shouldn’t have torn the family apart, but somehow it did. Never again did we make it to grandmother’s house. Slowly, everything in their house became coated with dust. The foosball table, the gum container, the trampoline, the swings. Children’s laughter never again echoed through the house. Broken feelings and broken hearts never returned. The people who once inhabited this sacred memory creator stopped visiting. But why would you care? Why would you care if your grandchildren are making huge life improvements? The oldest is one of the families that once shared in the memories now has a job. I have received 2 jobs, and am saving my money towards college. I will be graduating next year, heading into college. I have received all A’s in my studies. I have gotten my driver’s license. Gotten into a car accident. Gotten on the National Honors society. For God’s sake, I even invited you to a duet performance and you never showed. Even moved 2 hours away and you neglected to help or even relay how you felt. I miss the memories and most of all I miss my family, but I’m going to have to move on and accept the fate that I may never visit my grandmother’s house again.