Memories

I think the first person I ever fell in love with was my grandmother.

Because of my dad's job with Standard Oil, we (me, mom, & dad) had to move around a lot when I was little. I remember going to several different pre-schools and kindergartens but never really staying in one place long enough to make friends. We lived in Iowa mostly, I think, but at some point we moved to Houston and that's where my parent's marriage came apart. I was five.

My mom packed us up in our big, white Ford and, without stopping, drove us to my grandmother's house in Des Moines. I don't remember the day we got there, but I can say without a drop of uncertainty that we were pulled into the folds of my grandmother's world with all the warmth and love that anyone could ever possibly imagine.

644 Harwood Drive was heaven to me. Magical. As one turns onto Harwood Drive from 42nd Street, the first house that meets your gaze head-on is 644. The long driveway, long sidewalk, big front yard - the tree from which a baby bird fell one spring afternoon. (My mom helped me care for it, but it died the next day.) The massive lilac bushes that flourished on the north side of the house.

The front porch. So many moments and memories there...

When you walk through the front door and the dark anteroom, there's a formal dining room to the immediate right. In fact, the table on which this computer rests is the very one that sat in that room all those years ago (my aunt has it now). And the massive server that sat at the back of the dining room. I can still conjure the thick, pepper-silver aroma that wafted out each time a drawer was opened. There was a back entrance to the kitchen from the far end of the dining room.

The glass kitchen table where my mom tried to make me eat steamed spinach when I was a baby, the blender components that had been built into the counter-top, the coffee can filled with Louie's dog food - and the little green cup with flecks of some sort on it that was used to scoop the kibble out. The phone that hung over the little desk from which the babysitter and I would make prank phone calls when I got a little older.

In the back corner of the kitchen were stairs that led to the basement. Narrow, steep stairs - in my memory, that descended into a whole other world that mostly belonged to my uncle. His music studio was down there - a room in which the walls and ceiling were completely covered with egg carton-looking material. I'd poke around in there from time to time, but only when my uncle wasn't around.

There was also a pool table down there - to this day, I will never figure out how they got that thing down there. Whenever there was a tornado warning, that's where I was supposed to go - that's what I remember being told anyway, though I don't think I ever had to do it.

The laundry room was down there, too. I don't remember much about the laundry room except the laundry chute in the corner of the room that went up through the kitchen on the first floor and on up to the bathroom on the second floor. More times than I can count, my grandmother would need me to crawl up into the tiny chute to free a piece of clothing that had gotten stuck on its way down. I think that must have precipitated my claustrophobia - but I would have done anything for my Gramma, so up I went.

I remember the time we discovered I'd gotten too long to do the job. I had to lie on my back and inch my way up hands over head until I was sitting up - top half up inside the chute, bottom half sticking out - then I'd have to try to wiggle around for a few minutes until I was standing up inside the thing. Well, this last time, I could get half way in, but my legs had gotten too long and I wasn't able to bend them to get in. Not gonna lie - I was happy to be relieved of that duty.

Anyhoo...back upstairs...

To the left of the anteroom was the living room with its big picture window that looked over the porch and onto the front lawn. The fireplace, the pictures on the mantle - I remember one of my aunt specifically - either from my mom's wedding or maybe it was a senior picture - anyway, her hair was up and she looked so pretty. The Christmas tree would sit atop the big, white, round table in the corner of the room and every Christmas Eve, my uncle would play the auto harp while we sang Christmas carols. Then we'd bundle up and walk a couple of blocks to Plymouth Congregational Church for the midnight service. Gramma was the soloist for the choir and every year she sang, "O Holy Night" to the standing room only crowd.

There would be a bit of socializing after the service, but then a bunch of people always came back to Gramma's house for eggnog. Christmas morning was like torture because we'd have to have breakfast before we could open presents. Eggs Benedict. Gross.

I was the first grandchild - the next one didn't come along until I was 10. My uncle was living at home when we moved in with Gramma after leaving Houston, but he was rarely home and I knew to steer clear of him when he was home; my aunt was off at college and just came home during the holidays. I spent a lot of alone time with my Gramma. A lot.

I slept in the "back bedroom" - it was in the back corner of the house between the bathroom and the entry up to the attic (my favorite place ever!). The wall paper was funky and played tricks on my eyes and there was an evil clown that lived under the bed who tried to tickle my feet at night if they weren't safely tucked under the covers. The back bedroom was okay, but I preferred to stay in my aunt's room across the hall - it was big and bright and, more importantly, clown-free.

On her closet door, there were two posters: one of Steve McQueen from the movie "Le Mans" and one from "Romeo and Juliet" - Olivia Hussey was so beautiful. I must have stared at those two posters for hundreds of hours over the course of my childhood.

Each morning, I would wait for Gramma to poke her head into whichever room I was sleeping and ask me if I wanted to snuggle. I think there was some sort of rule or routine that I wasn't supposed to get out of bed until she came to get me because I don't recall ever getting up before her. Anyway - we'd pad back to her bedroom and I'd take a running leap into her bed (I was pretty little so it was too high off the ground to just get into the regular way), she'd crawl in and we'd snuggle. She was warm and soft and her scent of creams blanketed me. I never went back to sleep, but I would try to lie as still as possible so she could go back to sleep if she wanted. She never slept once she woke up though. She may have "rested her eyes" but she never slept.

After about 15 minutes, we'd get up and go downstairs for breakfast. She'd make my favorite - a toasted blueberry Pop Tart (no frosting) with warm, melty butter and a glass of orange juice - and "we'd" do the Jumble puzzle from the Des Moines Register. Then we'd get ready and she'd take me to work with her. I doubt she took me every morning because, at some point, I started going to kindergarten at Hubbell. I went with her a lot, though, and she was so proud to have me with her. All the people at Banker's Life called me "Gramma's Little Helper" - I felt *so* important.

We'd walk from the "home office" to another building and I swear every single person knew her and said hi to her. I thought she must have been the most important person in the world. She was always so smiley and cheerful and quick to introduce me to anyone we encountered.

I don't know what "grown up" circumstances were going on around me or where my mom was during the months we were living on Harwood Drive, all I know is that it was like heaven and my grandmother was an angel - those were without question the best memories I have of my childhood.

My Gramma. Every time she'd open her purse, it smelled of Certs. She used to vocalize in the car wherever we'd go. The way she'd put her lipstick on after every meal. The way everything was always just so and so very perfect. The way she'd take my face in her hands and touch noses with me ("Nosey pokers!"). Pat my knee while she was driving and say, "I'm so glad you're here, cutie!" She's got a million rituals and a routine for everything and I see so clearly how each of us have adopted her behaviors. Proudly.

She never complained about anything. Ever. She was rarely sick. She ate healthily, walked every day and took very good care of herself. She looked like a movie star, dressed to the nines, and always carried herself with elegance and grace. Her grammar is flawless, her manners impeccable - she is perfect in every way. Every single way.

We all adore her - always have. She is our precious angel. Her unconditional love for each of us has impacted us more profoundly than we can probably ever comprehend. She *is* love.

Where so many people fall short - she never has. She has always risen to the occasion - every occasion - and done the job that no one else would ever have the strength to do. I think it's fair to say that she's never disappointed anyone in her life.

I know that someone reading this will doubt what I've written, but if you know her, then you know truer words have never be written.