My Grandmother

My Grandmother

When I was a child, I always assumed that my world would never change. The center of that childish world was my grandmother. She was the lynch-pin that held the chaos of my universe together. My grandmother, I thought, was the greatest grandmother in the world.

She was a dichotomy, really. She was soft and sweet on one hand, but on the other to me, and my brother Jake, she revealed an altogether different side. I want you to understand what I am talking about, so I will tell you about an event that showed Gramma’s true nature.

We had only just moved back to live with her, when it happened. My father’s death was like a cloud that hung over my mother and brother and me, threatening to drown us with cares and sorrow. Gramma had tried for days to get one of us to smile, but it was no use.

So on Sunday she called us into her lair. The place that Gramma hung out almost all day was a magical place. It was her kitchen.

Even the front doors were a prelude to the wonders that were to come. The smells that were wafting lazily through the seams of the Double Oak French Doors were heavenly. The distinct smell of cinnamon danced on my olfactory senses, and then shot straight to my cheek muscles. I could feel the concrete blocks that I had placed there, in an effort to never smile again, cracking

My little brother Jake looked up at me in sublime expectancy. He then pushed open the swinging door and we stepped into this special place. It was like returning to the Garden of Eden after a lifetime of exile.

The walls were a pale yellow, off-white color. They may have been painted white once when the kitchen was built, but the years of Missouri heat, cold and humidity had weathered and dulled them. They were slick with the summer humidity already that morning.

As we entered the kitchen, to our right was an open pantry, filled to the brim withed canned goods. Now, I said canned, not cans. Gramma never bought a tin can full of vegetables in her life. She said it was a sin. No, on the shelves were dozens of shiny, glass jars filled Gramma’s handiwork. Peaches, green beans and other items, plucked from the garden, were peeking out at us from the jars.

Next was the largest refrigerator my twelve-year-old eyes have ever seen. It must have been six feet tall and at least four feet wide. I think it was the only brand new item in the kitchen.

In the cabinets that stretched along the walls were a million plates, glasses and bowls. Like white treasure chests holding sparkling and glittery jewels, each cabinet begged for attention. Many times I had eaten off the plates and bowls in those containers but I never before noticed that they each sparkled like a diamond.

All the way at the end of the room Gramma was standing in front of the stove. A huge silver sauce pan was steaming up a particularly delightful smell. It seemed to be the source of the cinnamon smell I detected earlier.

Jake nudged me and pointed. On all the tables and counters, and the large kitchen table as well, there were cookies, pies and cakes. Our mouths fell open in surprise. What a haul!

When our vision had cleared, and we had come back to ourselves, after fighting the impulse to gorge ourselves on these goodies, we found Gramma looking squarely at us. Her left hand was on her left hip and it held an enormous wooden spoon. Her gold and purple sweat suit showed the faintest sign of sweat under her arms.

She was small, really, compared to my mother. Gramma must have only been five foot three inches tall. She was skinny and her hair was gray. Her skin had taken on that slightly yellow color that older people seem to get deep under their flesh. Here and her flesh were the telltale discolorations that come with age and wisdom. She was smiling at us.

Gramma’s smile was warm and loving. The skin at the bas of her neck seemed as if it had come unattached from her neck. The elasticity had all but gone from it, as if it were the waist band in an unusually old pair of underwear.

It was her eyes, though, that spoke the clearest to me. They twinkled and sparkled with mischief. I stood there staring deep into those eyes and they were speaking to me. “There will be peace again,” they said.

Gramma told us to wash our hands. We went over to the sink and just as we were putting our hands into the water rushing into the chipped white porcelain, we were attacked from behind with a water pistol. Down inside the basin were two more pistols ad the tree of us were soon embroiled in an intense battle inside the kitchen. The Action spilled outside where we all ended up in a laughing heap.

She had done it. She had gotten us to smile. So, do you see what I am talking about? She was sweet and saintly, but I always had to watch for the ambush. She was the greatest.