Sundays, as a child, meant church, formal lunches, and then at 4 p.m. or thereabouts, a trip across town to visit my Granny.  Now if you are my age and remember back in the 60’s, then you know 4 o’clock meant the Lawrence Welk show was on TV.  Granny would greet us at her door, in one of her signature dresses,  with the sound of  “and a one and a two” playing in the background.  I understand why my Granny was a Lawrence Welk fan.  She loved to dance and was very smooth on her feet.  She was quite musical, too.  Although I was never lucky enough to hear her, I learned she played the harmonica quite well.  The show captured everything she loved about music.

On those lazy afternoons, Granny would always prepare a treat for us.  Anything and I mean anything,  Granny cooked or baked was delicious.  What amazed me more than the mouth-watering dishes she made was the fact that Granny could not read and therefore used no recipes.  In my eyes, all her meals were sheer genius.

Granny reserved two doors on opposite ends of her buffet for toys for her grandchildren.  Most of the family still lived in the area and would visit quite often.  My sister and I would sit in front of the buffet with the doors open wide, playing with the blue-cast iron motorcycle and a squeezable pink pig while listening to Lawrence Welk on the television and Momma and Granny conversing in their French dialogue behind us.

As we got older and bored with the buffet toys, we would sneak off to Granny’s bedroom, sit on her tufted chair in front of her dresser, and brush our hair with her matching hairbrush set, just like the stars did on the big screen.

Off the back porch, was the old washing machine.  The ringer type.  We would watch Granny operate that antiquated machine with ease and precision.  Her children offered to buy her a new washer and dryer, but she was content with what she had grown accustomed to.  After washing, she would carry her basket to the clothesline strung across the backyard.

Further back in the yard were where my favorite memories took place.  A huge fig tree was off center in her yard and was the focal point of every summer.  A hot, summer day, coupled with a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt, long pants and we headed out to Granny’s to pick figs.  Mom would “rally the troops” and bring a full station wagon of eager beavers over to her Mom’s so we could begin our annual journey of gathering figs so Mom could make her fig preserves.  Jars, and jars and more jars.  They were a family favorite.  Fig-picking was a tradition.

This shed reminds me of my Grandma’s shed.  

At the very back of the lot, behind the fig tree was an old shed and a chicken coop next to it.  I never cared for the chicken coop, but, oh what was inside that shed…I thoroughly enjoyed.  My uncle that lived with Granny loved to shoot pool.  So much so that he had purchased and placed a pool table in the shed.  The older the grandkids were, they left those buffet toys behind and graduated to the “shed” where they were allowed to join in the pool games.  Oh, the stories, the jokes, and the memories!

Next to Granny’s house, just a few steps away, was a Tastee Freeze ice cream shop.  Not frequently, but often enough to feel privileged, we were treated to some ice cream.  However, sometime before Granny died, that establishment had been torn down and replaced with a popular Mexican fast food chain.  Granny’s house was later rented and ultimately sold.

A long while later, I drove near there, and I saw a bulldozer knocking down the walls of the drive-thru.  I was told the food chain was remodeling.   Last night, as I was taking my Mom to eat dinner like we did every Saturday evening after Mass, I was describing what she was going to see on the left.  As we passed by slowly, in the dark, my Mom said, “Elle, I think Granny’s house is gone too.”  Oh, my heart sank!  I whipped that car around as fast as I could, struggled to find her street since the landmarks were no longer there and when we drove up, my headlights told a story I was not prepared to see.  It indeed had been demolished with only a two-foot pile of rubble left standing.  We both burst into tears.  Not able to utter a word.  Memories came flooding back to my mind, and I just wept.

I was so thankful for Granny’s house and the memories I hold dear.  The love of my grandma, the music, the food, the hard work, the entertainment, the memories of childhood Sunday afternoons.  I so want my future grandchildren to hold fond memories of me and my home long after I have passed too.

So, to the little gray house on Garrett Drive, I say farewell.  After all, it was not the building or the foundation, but the woman who lived inside your walls that made it home and forever a part of my memories.

My Granny in the solid green dress at my wedding shower, circa 1981.

With a smile and a happy heart,