I remember Grama's place. You couldn't see the house from the winding country road. You had to turn off into a narrow lane where the rusty mail boxes stood and pass two other houses before Grama's house came into view high on a hill. All the way up the drive on each side were deep rows of peony bushes. On a June night their perfume would fill the air welcoming you to Grama's place.
The snug red brick house had cement railings in the shape of slides on either side of the front stairs which led to a huge wooden veranda. This is where Grama kept her metal swing. It was like a bed and creaked and squeaked when you rocked on it. By the front door, fastened to the wall was a small wooden note board where Grama pinned messages to say where she had gone and when she'd be back.
From the veranda you could peek in the three long windows and see into the front room. Under these windows sat her couch, decorated with fancy lace doilies. Off to one side was the intricate and elegant carved desk that Grama had made from a grand piano. It had all sorts of secret drawers for money and jewels.
On the other side of the large room was her famous Victrola that came all the way from Chicago. In the middle of the room stood her majestic quilt frame with yet another heirloom in the making.
Around back was the tiny cluttered garage attached to the house and above it you could see the small attic windows with the diamond panes. Grama let me visit that attic room a few times but it was never enough. I remember two steamer trunks brimming full with tons of treasures, a wicker doll buggy that I asked to take home, and stacks of dusty books that would take me hundreds of years to read.
I loved the attic room almost as much as I loved the pond at the bottom of the hill. Everyone called it a pond but it was more like a lake. That's where I learned to swim with a rope around my waist and Grama on the other end of the rope. That's where I caught my first fish with a bamboo pole, string line and safety pin hooks.
The best place in my whole world was sitting on the rickety dock, listening to the hundreds of frogs singing late into the night. There will never be another place like Grama's.
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Why a blog?Family history just fascinates me. And not just my own. There are many facts and people that have been lost to time. I really enjoy puzzles and sometimes I come across some really interesting mysteries in my genealogy travels. I'll post some of my musings here. Archives
November 2015
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