To a child, a grandparent is more a place and a feeling than an actual person. As Grandma's oldest grandchild, I felt very important and proud to be able to go visit her all by myself (if somewhat intimidated by the young uncles). The ranchhouse, the garden, the orchard, the pond to fish in, the barn with lambs to help feed from bottles--were all quaint and magical, like walking into a storybook farm. With the fruit stand on the highway, Lydie's Canyon with the dairy cows around the bend, and new friends and cousins to meet at church in Glendale on Sunday, I only needed one thing more to make my life complete--an attic bedroom full of unread books. I was in heaven.
I remember the interesting metallic taste of the tapwater in Grandma's house. I remember the smell of Grandma's fresh bread and the taste of sweet fresh butter on it. I remember sitting under the old round wooden table listening to Mom, Aunt Corinne, Aunt Mary Ann, and Grandma laughing. I remember Grandma's homemade cottage cheese--a sharp, salty taste. I remember the smell of fallen apples, walking through knee-high grass in the orchard, picking flowers and wildflowers and Grandma helping me put them in a vase on the table. I remember being teased by Grandpa and Uncle Mike, and going to Grandma for refuge. I remember her hard work, the good, sturdy, hearty produce of her hands.
I ate many meals that she prepared, and the flowers I picked were what she had planted. Now that I'm a Grandma, my goal is to have a magical place of common beauty, hard work, and love for my grandkids, like her place was for me.
I love you, Grandma. Can you believe you're the Grandma of a Grandma? Pretty amazing.
Love, Karla
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