Grandma"s House

Jenny Parker and I usually walked home from school together. Maybe "walked" wasn't the right word. We usually raced each other, our cheeks cherry red from running. 

    But not today. Today my father was picking me up because I was spending the weekend with my grandparents. I loved spending the weekend with my grandparents. They live out in the country, while my parents and I live in the city. 

   Whenever I come home from my grandparent's house I always feel like I've been wrapped in a warm cozy glow of comfort. The feeling lasts for days. It stays with me, and I love it. My grandparents house always feels like home to me. 

   My parents told me that when I was a baby we lived with my grandparents for a while. My mother's parents. Of course, I was too young to remember that. I never knew my father's parents. They were killed in a car accident before I was born, so I only know them from pictures, or from whatever stories my parents tell me about them. 

   We drove down the highway admiring the colors of the leaves and how pretty the trees were. There were bright brilliant bursts of color everywhere. Crimsons and oranges and shades of peach and bright yellows. It was the first week in October, my teacher had written the date on the blackboard. October 4,1969. 

"This is my favorite time of year Dad," I said turning my head to admire the scenery. "I know" said my father. "Halloween and your birthday, all in the same month. October is a big big month for you." I nodded and crossed my legs. There was plenty of room. I was a little small for my age, but my mother is small. 

   My father drove straight down the Main street of Henderson. My grandparents lived just a little outside of the town. Their house had been a farm at one time. It had been an in-need-of-repair farmhouse when my grandparents bought it. My grandparents had updated and modernized it. There was a barn off to the side with separate stalls and a hayloft. It must have been a home for horses and cows at one time, but my grandparents use it just for storage now. 

   We pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching over the gravel. My grandfather was sitting on the porch swing waiting for us wearing a faded blue flannel shirt under his light blue overalls. He had on his favorite faded red baseball cap. 

   It would be hard not to recognize us. Our car was a bright maroon Ford tempo. 'Past its prime' my father liked to say, 'but she still ran great.' He always chuckled a little afterward.  

    I watched my grandfather come down the steps, his shoulders stooped but his steps firm and definite. "Well, Kelsey," he said " You're going to stay with Grandma and me this weekend. Grandma wants to do some baking. And she could use some help." I jumped out of the car, threw my arms around my grandfather, kissed the fronts of his overalls and ran up the steps. I yanked the door open and was halfway down the hallway, leading to the kitchen, before I heard the door slam shut behind me. 

   I loved baking with my grandmother. The whole house smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. It was the best smell in the world. My grandmother had been letting me help her bake since I was in kindergarten. I was the only grandchild, both my parents having no brothers or sisters. I handed her the measuring cups, the flavorings, the bowls and the pots and pans. 

   "Kelsey my dear," said my grandmother. "Wash your hands. You know where your apron is." I dragged the small step stool out of the corner, turned on the water and washed my hands. After climbing down I dried my hands, then pushed the stool back over using my foot. I ran into the small pantry and pulled my apron down off the hook, tying it around my waist. I joined my grandmother at the kitchen table planting a kiss on her cheek. Our aprons were identical. Pinstriped black and white with large criss-crossed orange rolling pins all along the bottom border. 

   My grandmother was kneading bread dough. Her hands were covered in snow white flour and I could smell the tang of currants, the bite of ginger, and the sweetness of nutmeg. There was the quick sharpness of cloves, and the warmer heavier scents of vanilla and brown sugar. A small dish of raisins plump and shiny sat nearby. My grandmother had the best chopped fruit. It was flavorful....and juicy and tender. With one bite, the pieces of dried fruit just burst in your mouth, the taste lingering. I loved my grandmother's baking. 

    My grandmother was sprinkling chopped walnuts from a small pile in front of her into the dough. I grabbed one or two pieces smiling at my grandmother as I did so. My grandmother returned my smile and tapped my nose leaving a small dot of flour behind. The walnuts were crispy and nutty She was making my favorite bread. We always ate it warm, right out of the oven, slathered with butter.  

"Oh darn, said my grandmother. I forgot the dried cherries. Kelsey, would you be a love and get the dried cherries for me? They are in the cold cupboard in the back." 

   In my grandparents house, there was a small cupboard attached to the pantry. It opened to the outside with a tall skinny door that was always kept locked and that my grandfather had sealed tight, and a front door that was accessed from the pantry. It was close to my height and that is where my grandmother stored edibles during the fall and winter months that needed to be kept cold, without being refrigerated. 

    I asked my grandmother once, what the difference was, and she explained she did not like the dried fruit that she used for her baking to be rock hard, she wanted her fruit to stay fresh and soft. And the cupboard was convenient for that. 

   I walked into the pantry with its neat shelves of bowls, baking dishes, measuring cups, flour sifters, bags of sugar, all kinds of spices and flavorings, jars of preserves. Well stocked and neat as a pin. I opened the door to the cold cupboard and saw the neatly tied batches of cinnamon sticks and hanging dried fruit. The jars of dried currants and cherries and apricots. 

 I reached in for the glass jar of dried cherries and stopped cold. My hand completely still in midair. 

Dead center, on the floor of the cupboard, was a rock twice the size of my fist. It was glowing, in pulsating waves of brilliant color. The reds and blues and purples and greens were breathtaking. Waves of rainbows flashed over and over again. I withdrew my hand and the flashing stopped. Now the rock was just a plain gray rock. I moved my hand forward once more and the rock began to flash in brilliant colors one again. 

   "Grandma," I called. "What is this? There's a rock In here that's flashing. There are all kinds of colors. What is this? Where did this rock come from?"

   I looked back at my grandmother. She was wiping her hands on the towel she had tucked into the waistband of her apron. She started across the kitchen, heading for the pantry, where I stood open mouthed gazing at the rock. Tentatively, I moved my hand forward again and the rock began flashing again. 

   "It's nothing to be afraid of Kelsey, it's just a beautiful interesting rock that your grandfather found out behind the house, when we first bought the place."

My grandmother stood behind me now, with both her hands on my shoulders. "It's just a rock, honey." I was open mouthed, frozen in place. My grandmother squeezed my shoulders gently, then she turned me around to face her. 

   I stared up at my grandmother, speechless. 

     "Kelsey Dear, can you reach in and get me the dried cherries?" I gaped at my grandmother raising one hand, and pointing to the cold cupboard. 

   My grandmother chucked me under the chin smiling, and turned away heading back toward the kitchen table and her bread dough. Apparently....just a rock.