Home

Some of my best memories are from home. And what I call home is not the house my parents purchased: not a home I lived in while I was in my teens; nor was it my great-aunt’s home where many of my life's problems and goals were discussed. Home was Granny's house and all the little pleasurable things that surrounded it.

The history of Granny’s home in Florida is admirable.
My grandmother and grandfather married young and did not have very much money. But they worked hard and soon built a home by themselves (with the exception of a few relatives). I am not sure which came first, the house or children, but they had one girl and two boys.
They added on to the home when they adopted the four children belonging to my grandmother’s sister—she had passed away. I believe the youngest of those children was about five.
So, with all of the responsibility she already had and the new ones acquired, my grandmother was still able to create the fondest memories for them and their children. The nature of her personality took care of almost everything. Mother Nature took care of the rest.

Let us go back in time to the smells. A smell bordering on bad comes from the back room. It is the yeast coming from rising dough. She is making homemade cinnamon buns, yes buns since they’re too big to call rolls. They are as big as two of my seven-year-old fists. Then she bakes them and prepares the icing. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla pervade the furthermost corner of the house and my mind. I can’t think of anything else but those sweet, gooey pastries.

“Are they done yet, Granny?” I ask for the fifth time.

Then there are the mental pictures stored away. Crepe myrtle trees cradle the driveway like the precious path that it is. The nurturing arms are blooming the sweetest pink petal that float to the drive like a dream. The trees blossom often but they seem prettier every year. This is so lovely my eight-ear-old mind can’t understand why this picture isn’t on everyone’s walls.

Sounds. Can I describe the sounds well enough to convey how special they were? Every Sunday the whole bunch got together and had lunch. It was such fantastic chaos. Her seven children along with their children came together for a day of food, play-time and catching up on each other’s lives.

BANG!

“Melanie, I’m going get after you if you slam that door again,” Aunt Sara says.

“That wasn’t me; it was Sally.”

“Are you watching her out there?” Aunt Terry asks.

“Yes ma’am."

“Debra, did you boil the potatoes?” Granny asks. “You know what happened last time.”

Everyone laughs. One day our potato salad was made with raw cubed potatoes. It was a case of too many cooks. No one turned the burner on, but each one thought the other turned it off.

“Yes,” Aunt Debra says. “But I have a new recipe I want to try.”

“Remember to keep some out for me before you add relish,” my mother says.

“Amy, go out the back door – you’re letting the cold air out.”

“Yes ma’am,” Amy replies.

I start follow Amy out. Melanie, Amy and I are going to make sand castles.

“Lisa, you haven't given me a hug yet,” Granny says.

This episode leads me to the feelings part. My grandmother has mentioned a hug three or four times since I've been here. I am ten now and feel too old for hugs, but I know she will eventually get one. I have to walk out the back door, which is beside the bench she is sitting on.
“Ah-ha-ha. I got me one,” Granny sings in the childish voice she uses when she teases us, and then she grabs me and squeezes.

Hugs. She thought about that bit of affection continuously, and I knew it.

You see, she loved all of her children. That feeling of unconditional love came through in her hugs, her cooking and even her discipline. My grandmother’s love has never been replicated in my life, and it is unlikely it ever will.

I love you too, Granny. You are my Grand Mother. I miss you.