Adopted Grandparents

My mom called to me from our house, which stood on a hill surrounded by fifty miles of verdant forest in Pineville, Missouri. She couldn’t see where I was hiding at the base of an old pine tree. In my lap was a notebook filled with story ideas. I had been working on a story involving a princess who was captured in a prison. I closed it, thinking that I would never get to finish. My mom and dad were always calling me back into the house to clean something or to do my schoolwork, which was boring. All six of us homeschooled that year. As the eldest, I was supposed to set the example, but I just wanted to escape the loud house for the comfort of the pines, oaks, and aspens. I daydreamed out in the forest, imagining up all sorts of magical creatures and ancient ruins. I tried not to think of the best friend I had left when we moved here less than a year ago.

When I finally went inside, my mom was loading up the car, a 1998 teal suburban with a stripe running down the side. When I was really young, we fit a small television in between the front seats and watched E.T. on VHS. I thought it was the coolest car. Now I just thought it had hot leather seats and it was always a mess.

“We’re going to meet the Nibletts.” She said.

“Who?”

“An elderly couple, you’ll see.” I rolled my eyes, but got into the car. That year there would be no visiting our grandparents who lived in other states. My mom had a scheme to adopt a couple from church as our grandparents. We kept the windows rolled down and the George Straight music on high all the way there.

We met up with Loren Niblett at a gas station so he could show us the way. My dad drove slowly and around the many potholes in the unpaved and winding red dirt road. In front of us was Loren’s old ford truck, leading us through the unmarked maze of back roads and over an underwater bridge. 

“I figured you wouldn’t git here without me leadin’ the way.” Loren said when we arrived. He pulled the pile of dogs off us and told them to go inside. He was a big man, taller than my dad and had wide shoulders and wore jean overalls with work boots and his sleeves rolled to the elbow. His square face held sorrow and laughter at the same time. “And if it’s raining, you won’t make it over that bridge.”

“I was wondering about that. Are you stuck here when it floods?” 

He nodded, “But we have plenty to keep us.”

My dad looked around. He wanted a homestead like this one day. “You sure have a nice place out here.”

Pulling up into the driveway, the house was just ahead, sitting inside the hill. Next to it was a large garden with corn, tomatoes, and rows and rows of purple hull peas. We would end up working in that garden and peeling many of those peas. To the right a couple horses grazed in a downhill pasture cut out of the forest.

“Thanks. We built it ourselves a long time ago with my Pa. Let me get my wife and we can show you around. JOANN!” He called out, walking towards the house.“They’re here!”

Joann was about fifty years old, with short gray hair and a portly body. She came out wearing her dark half-apron and wiping her hands. A small white dog escaped and she pushed it back inside. “Git in there, you!” Then she came up to us. “Glad you made it.”

“Is youw house undergwound?” Michael, my four-year-old brother asked.

“Well, yeah it kind of is.” She laughed. “Keeps it cool in the summer and warm in the winter.”

They showed us a pasture to the left, a greenhouse and chicken coop in the back, and rounded the house with the flower beds in front. Inside the house was cool. The walls were made of cement and the corners were rounded off. Each room was painted a bright color. We walked through the front room which was dark and full of storage to the bright red kitchen. 

“We built this place ourselves, you know.” Loren was saying, “I helped my pa build it and then we moved in to take care of him. Never left.”

“There on the wall is our son.” Joann paused to look at the picture of the young man with long hair. Her voice became soft. “He was our only son. Nineteen when the motorcycle accident happened. It’s been twelve years.”

We talked a long time in the bright blue living room and ate a lunch of chicken salad sandwiches. We had many visits in that living room, sharing our lives with the older couple. 

Years later, I took my husband there and it looked exactly the same. Hand-painted landscapes hung on the walls. Piles of pills and tissues on the hand-made wooden side table. A few small dogs running around our feet as we spoke with Loren about his recently deceased wife. Though he said little, the emotion in his words ran deep. He explained how she had fallen ill and needed constant help to do the simplest of things. Sitting on that low floral couch once more, I remembered the first conversation I had with her so many years ago. 

Joann Niblett was sitting in her big reclining chair when she looked over to me and asked what I liked to do.

“Write. I’ve started writing a book.”

“You have? Well, that’s great. Are you going to finish it?”

“I guess. I don’t have that much yet. It’s mostly a bunch of ideas.”

She leaned forward in her comfy arm chair and searched me with pale blue eyes. “Many people start, but not many finish. Promise me that you will finish a book one day?”

Struck by her sincerity, I nodded.