Post by Kahlessa on Mar 27, 2008 10:12:27 GMT -5
Remembering My Grandparents
This came from an assignment I had for my class on teaching writing in Fall 1997. We were supposed to loosely imitate the structure of another poem and create our own.
Several years ago, my grandmother, who we called Mamaw, died and my family went to Tennessee for the funeral. She was 86, so it was not unexpected. After the funeral, we went back to my grandmother’s house. My grandfather, Papaw, had died years before and the family was going to sell the house. I walked through the house, realizing that it would probably be the last time I would be in it.
I can see
Mamaw and Papaw coming out on the porch,
to greet us as our car drove up,
the hedges that surrounded the house,
which often trapped Frisbees and footballs,
the pale green metal bench swing,
the family tree hanging on the wall,
the yard where I played games with my cousins, and
the old copies of Reader’s Digest,
stacked on the upstairs steps.
I can taste
the cornbread cooked in an cast-iron skillet,
my grandparents laughing because I cut my piece
instead of breaking it off,
the country ham,
too salty for my Yankee tastebuds,
the chicken and dumplings,
which no one can recreate,
though my cousin comes close,
the coconut pie,
which Mamaw would sometimes make special for me, and
the Coco-Cola from the refrigerator on the back porch,
crammed full of bottles.
I can call back
Mamaw teaching me to crochet,
the country music on the radio,
playing Monopoly at the dining table with my cousins,
losing the pieces in the heating vents, and
shooting fireworks off the front porch.
I remember
the family Christmas get together the first weekend after Christmas,
all the wonderful excesses,
too much food,
too many presents,
too many people,
the Christmas tree in the corner,
trying to find a place to sit, and
greeting relatives I had not seen for a year.
I can call back
the baseball field named for Papaw,
being dressed in a Little League uniform
for a picture with my cousins.
I can feel
the cold water and smooth stones while wading in the creek,
the white bedspread I would lay on and read,
the couch where I would sleep,
too short to be comfortable
as I grew taller over the years, and
the hot red vinyl seats of Papaw’s car,
when it had been left in the sun.
I can see
the telephone in its nook in the hallway,
the large grill vent between the dining room and living room,
the whip that Papaw tried to show us how to crack,
the upstairs window overlooking the front yard, and
Mamaw showing me her wedding dress,
as we explored the closets and trunks in storage.
I can hear
Papaw telling jokes,
his hearty laughter,
Mamaw telling me stories about when she was young,
how she and Papaw courted, married, and
did not have a honeymoon,
because people just went home in those days.
I can call back
Papaw’s lively zest,
Mamaw’s quiet warmth,
the joy of having so many relatives,
the smells in the kitchen, and
the sounds in the morning when I was trying to sleep.
I remember
the last time I saw Mamaw,
she was in a nursing home,
I came one evening to see her,
no one else was there,
a rare occurrence.
We talked for a while,
I told her that the afghan,
she had crocheted for me,
was draped over my couch,
in my apartment in Chicago,
She asked me about how my life was going, and
she hoped I would always be happy.
After her funeral, I was sitting on the bed in an upstairs bedroom, just remembering everything I could. My three-year-old nephew comes in and climbs up beside me. I am a little startled to see him, because he is not a part of my memories of this house and this family. I take his hand and we go downstairs, to create new memories.
Which got me thinking about all the things parents never paid any attention to when we were growing up, back in the day. Ice hockey and ice boating on questionably thin ice, riding bikes in traffic and through the woods alone, no seat belts in cars (let alone child restraints!), and still we lived. There was plenty more... what else? Anyone want to join in?