Spaces and Places

We were gypsies growing up.  A different grade school every year.  No, we weren’t military.  My Dad’s educational pursuits led us to universities across the Midwest.    My grandparents’ farm is one of the few childhood places I can visit as an adult.  That’s why, “The Farm,” as it is affectionately called, means so much to me.  I can close my eyes and see each room of the house.  Sights, sounds, and people come rushing in.  Now it’s going to be demolished, torn down, abolished.  Does that mean my memories will be buried with the debris?  My logical mind comprehends the utility of it all.  The house is over a hundred years old and sits in the heartland of rural America.  The upkeep is too much. Time has weakened the structure.   It’s for the best to return it to the surrounding farmland, but somewhere inside me there is a little girl crying, “No, you can’t!” It’s as if some part of me is afraid she will be gone forever.

Walking through the house last summer transported me back.  Little did I know it was for the last time since the demolition will occur before I can return home again.  Funny, it seems so small, so dated.  Time made its mark in peeling wallpaper and worn floorboards.  Still, images and feelings rushed in and knocked me over like an ocean wave on the beach.  A strange analogy for a farm in the middle of rustling corn and beans.

As I entered the side door, I ‘m in Grandma’s kitchen.  The main entrance is the side door entering into the kitchen, not the actual front door of the house with its iconic front porch and swing. Once I cross the threshold, I’m no longer in my current time and space.

After hugging Grandma and Grandpa, I dash over to the cookie cupboard, in an effort to beat my brother there.  Within its doors are tins and Tupperware containers of oh, so delicious, melt in your mouth confections made to delight.   I pop some Divinity into my mouth and it waters.  I have a glaze of sugar on my fingertips and lips, which I lick with precision so none of the deliciousness escapes.  Edna held the proud distinction of “Cookie Grandma” to both family and friends.

Adjacent to it, stands the kitchen table, a gathering place for cousins and many happy conversations.   Grandpa called Nabisco Shredded Wheat, “hay” and Grapenuts cereal, “gravel.” When we drove by fields of baled hay, he never failed to point out, “There’s where your breakfast comes from.”  Though he never passed up an opportunity to say it, we always responded with surprised laughter.

From the kitchen, I walk into the dining room.   It becomes December.   The long table with the crocheted tablecloth hosted big family Christmas dinners. With my Nordic heritage, Lutefisk was the main course with a variety of other Swedish dishes.

The smell of the stinky white fish permeates the house.  The gauntlet is thrown down.  “Who is brave enough to eat the fish?” announces a challenger.

Most of my cousins wrinkle up their noses, “No, not me!” they exclaim.

A few of us gather our fortitude and eat it, “Mmmm, that’s good,” we proclaim to the shocked onlookers.   We did this to please our grandmother and for bragging rights with the rest of the cousins.  The more the other children protest, the more we partakers pronounce delight with our meal.

As we walk through each room, the child me tags along.  She becomes different ages, depending on which room we toured.

The couch in the living room has an afghan created by Grandma placed with precision across the top, along with specialty throw pillows.  My grandpa’s gray recliner towers in the corner.  Now, I’m three and I’m scaling its heights to snuggle with Grandpa.  My arrival at the top is met with a warm embrace, “That’s my girl,” he says with a chuckle.   I bury my nose in his chest and inhale the aroma of peppermint and pipe tobacco, hidden in his shirt pocket.

The Christmas tree is up against the back wall.   There are mounds of brightly colored wrapping paper left over from the morning’s festivities.  Once again, I’m running, launching myself into the pile with the others.  Rustling paper and laughter echo, as the newly received toys, become jealous of the attention given to the bows, boxes, and paper.

Near the door that led to the front porch, hangs a picture of Jesus.  He has a faraway look and a glowing aura surrounds him.  He looks kind and wise as if he approves of all the love and warmth that fills the room when we gather together.  The same wall is the backdrop for family pictures. Getting us to hold still is like the proverbial cat herding, as parents scramble to align their offspring.  After several attempts, with much squirming by kids and chiding by adults, the photographer captures the moment.  As soon as it was over, we scattered like wild birds set free from an unfamiliar cage on the way to more entertaining pursuits.

The bedroom off the living room has curtains hung across the wide door frames instead of doors since Grandpa and Grandma’s bedroom is on the other side.  This became the perfect venue for impromptu performances and modeling dress up clothes. We, the proud thespians, bowed to the applause of our adoring audience. The praise of our beaming parents sent us scurrying upstairs in search of additional plots and costume changes.

As we walked up the steps, little me recalls climbing the stairs on all fours.  Such a tall incline for such small legs, I was breathless with the satisfaction of the achievement, after I finally reached the top. Now the stairs appear so close and small.   Off one of the bedrooms is a small area which holds dress up clothes in an assortment of cardboard boxes. Circa 1930’s, they contained high heeled pumps, dresses, and hats with netting. We girls squeal with delight as we clip-clop around the wooden floor showing off our finery, a tribute to another time and place.

When we or the grownups tire of us being in the house, they shooed us outside to roam and explore.  There were a variety of things we could do.  Besides, yelling at the cows in the pasture, we threw hay at each other inside the barn or play jump and hide in the piles of straw.  Outside there was an old hitching post.  It had a long horizontal pole that became our Olympic balance beam. For a special treat, Grandpa hitched a small John Deere riding mower to a wagon.  One of the older children became the designated driver and the remaining children pile into the wooden cart.  Grandpa usually wore a smile, but at that moment, his face became somber.   Before he sent us out he points his finger at us in warning, “Don’t you hit my trees.”  We made extra special sure not to hit one of the fledgling pine trees as we weave in and out.  At the wheel, we felt so mature and never violated our pact with Grandpa and the trees.

Running around always made us thirsty. Drinking from the tin cup hanging from the hook on the well house quenches our parched throats in a way that drinking the same water inside the house could not.  To signal us for dinner, Grandma pulls a cord outside the back door.  The clanging bell signals us back inside.  The race is on and each of us sprints in an effort to be the first one there.

The tour of the house and surrounding grounds took about an hour, but decades of much-missed faces and moments continued to play like a video in my mind on the ride home.  Though the physical places and spaces will be gone for good, the memories are etched forever in my heart.

 

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I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead