April 17, 2009

• Of Substance

  I don’t know what to write anymore. Sometimes I just feel like an empty puppet, going to work every day and going home because that’s what I’m told to do.

  Maybe I should write about something profound, new, fresh. Maybe I should stop writing garbage.

  Maybe I should write something Of Substance.

  When I was 5, my grandpa got a new dog. Her name was Cocoa and she had a purple tongue. She was a puppy.

  My dad and I went to Grandma’s House all the time. I had a tire swing on the tree on the hill and the trees were a place to explore and climb and get scabby knees. Barely cloudy days found me playing hide and seek with the dogs in the summer and running in the grass. Rainy days I explored the china hutches and the basement and The West Room. It was locked unless grandma let me in. There was yarn and books and an old Coke bottle with Coke still in it and Grandma’s Dolls and some jewelry and lots of stuff to get into. Grandma let me snoop, she didn’t mind. She let me have things and let me play.

  Whenever we got kicked out of our apartment and didn’t have a place to stay we went to Grandma’s House. Dad slept on the couch and I slept on the floor. For a while I lived at Grandma’s House without dad. I played and watched old I Love Lucy videos and admired Grandma’s Dolls from behind glass and under plastic and climbed the trees. I sat in the flowers and read books.

  Grandma’s House was always where we went for Thanksgiving and Christmas. She made the lefsa and turkey. We brought the pies from Baker’s Square. Grandma’s House was filled with loud talking and laughter and good times. Uncle Roger was always an hour late, even though he lived right down the road. We laughed about it. Grandma’s House is always where the BBQ’s are with the grills and picnic tables in the back yard. Potato salad and beans and chicken and steak and burgers and pickles and ketchup. The loudness wasn’t bunched up in the small space anymore and floated up to the sky.

  The basement bathroom door had things written all over it that I didn’t understand. Everyone told me not to read it whenever I went down there. I haven’t been down there in years but I remember they were the crude writings of teenage boys.

  So many memories bottled up in that house. Priceless memories.

  I found out a couple months ago my grandparents are selling their house and 10 acres. They’re selling a lot of their things and moving into an apartment. They can’t afford their property taxes anymore and they’re getting too old to keep up the house and the land. They’ve made it their home for the last 30-40 years.

  I might take it the hardest. I will cry the last time I go there. I will feel awful. Grandma’s House means so much to me. It’s always been Grandma’s House, and I never thought it would go away like this. It’s like knocking down a solid wall in my world because Grandma’s House is Safe, a haven. And soon it will be no more.

  • 9:29 pm
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