the garden (part 4 of "empty house")

The memories from inside the house - family, holiday feasts, laughter, debates, and endless birthday parties, tugged at the heart; but seeing the place that was once Grandpa's garden was a different kind of homesick feeling. Perhaps it is because it represents someone who was greatly respected by every person who ever knew him. "A good name is rather to be chosen, than great riches." When I was a child and someone in our small town asked who my grandparents were, I was always proud to say, "Franklin Pierce," because it was always met with a response that was filled with praise, admiration, and respect. I knew that my grandfather was an unusual man that sought after the Lord and showed it by treating all people with respect and a spirit of humility.

It was rare that my grandfather was not busy doing something. Work was as much a part of his life as breathing. There is even rumour that he mowed the lawn (push mower mind you) on crutches. He had two heart-attacks, was diabetic, and had severe arthritis and still managed to create things in his workshop in the basement and tend to his abundant garden. But it was only a matter of time before he would not be able to do the things he so loved. This dawned on me one day as I buttoned his shirt for him. His hands were too swollen that day from arthritis to do such a simple task. I managed to keep a brave face on and a weak smile as I finished the last button and he tried to say something funny. I quickly made an excuse to take a walk and barely got out the front door and headed for the pond before the tears came. Praise the Lord He took Grandpa home and he never had to suffer losing his abilities to take care of himself.

Grandpa's garden was beautiful. He had vegetables, flowers, strawberries, fruit trees, blueberry bushes, and even a huge lilac bush which doesn't usually thrive here in the south. He had many contraptions and tricks for keeping away unwanted pests and the like. Many a meal was served around the pine table with the lazy susan that spun around with fresh greenbeans, corn, red tomatoes and cucumbers in vinegar, red potatoes, corn bread, and pork chops. Grandpa had worked diligently to bring about such a harvest, while we had loafed around in the hammock or ran through the freshly plowed tobacco fields. And here we were, enjoying the reapings of what one man had sown.

the hallway (part 3 of "empty house")

This is the hallway that led to "the back bedroom." You see, there were actually two bedrooms at the end of this hall - one on either side; but only one was considered "the back bedroom." At night, when it was pitch black and cold outside, walking down this creaky hallway took much courage for a child of seven or eight or...yeah, I would probably still be just as afraid at thirty-two. There was something about walking away from the light of the television in the den and the warmth of the woodstove and walking towards the darkness and icy cold "back bedroom." Even the name..."back bedroom" sounds like where a murder might take place, well, you know...to a child. The bed in that room was an antique rope bed. It seemed so high up to me at the time. It creaked and squeaked as you climbed up and it felt icy cold under the sheet and heavy quilt. There were terrifying silhouettes of George and Martha Washington - crosstitched in black, framed and hanging on the wall above the bed. At the time, dear Martha resembled a witch. The only way to survive such a night was to ball yourself up under the quilt and squeeze your eyes shut and it never seemed to last more than a few minutes and the next thing you knew it was morning and you were wondering what in the world you were so afraid of.

the bedroom (part 2 of "empty house")

Shell thought I should take some pictures of the empty house. I thought that sounded depressing, but when I saw the wallpaper in grandma's bedroom, a flood of memories came to me and I knew she was right. It is so amazing how every home has it's own aura or feel to it. You enter through the door and immediately feel something that you have felt before, over and over again and you kind of say to yourself, "oh yeah." When I walked into the bedroom and looked at the wallpaper it was as if my five senses were experiencing the same sensations they had experienced when I was a child. I remembered lying in grandma's four poster bed under the sheets, quilt, and white "Bates" bedspread. She and my grandpa would be right outside the door in their recliners by the woodstove watching t.v. and I would try to make out the muffled dialogue of the sit-com they were watching. I would eventually give up and stare at the shadows cast upon the wall from the moonlight shining through the lace curtains. Eventually I would drift off and sleep a very sound sleep until I was awoken by the scent of grandpa frying bacon.

In the summers as a very, small child, I remember being forced to take a nap in the big bed with the promise of being taken to Miss Mary Ellen's pool. Who can nap with a promise like that to look forward to? Especially with the excitement of being at Grandma's in the middle of summer with cousins? Not to mention, Grandma and one or more of my aunts were probably doing some kind of exciting craft at the kitchen table. But eventually, the loud hum and icy air produced by the window unit put one into a deep sleep that refreshed like no other.

I remember the yellow floral sheets, the smell of menthol mixed with the aroma from the woodstove, the white shutters, and the sound of the train in the distance. I remember spending the night on "school nights" and doing my homework in front of the t.v. and enjoying a "black cow" (a root beer float). Grandma would wake us up early in the morning and make us run to the pond and back to wake us up. Everything would be rush, rush and she would pack us lunches that appealed more to ladies in the "teacher's lounge" than a third grader. (I am referring to sandwiches that usually ended in the word "salad" - tuna salad, egg salad, ham salad. But she always more than made up for it by sticking a Little Debbie Snack in the brown paper lunch bag.)

As far as I know, Grandma and Grandpa always welcomed us when we asked to "spend the night." It was never trouble or complicated. We just went where they went, ate what they ate, and were meshed right into their plans. If they had to go to a meeting, church function, or even a funeral, we just went with them. I never remember them acting as if we would complicate the situation. We were to bring the appropriate attire, behave, and go right along with what they had to do.

I do have a bittersweet memory of this bedroom. I remember crying myself to sleep in this bed as Grandma rubbed my back with her knotty hands and sang to me one of her familiar lullabies. Oh, what was it called? "hmmm, hmmm...sweet, Kentucky baaa-by." (Something like that.) I had just learned of my Papa Phil's death and he was so dear to me. I was his "princess." I was actually living with my grandparents at the time. I was in seventh grade and I had grown quite close to my grandparents. They were a great comfort to me as I experienced this loss.

These are just a few of the memories that come to mind as I glance at the wallpaper in Grandma's bedroom. This is now part of the empty house.

empty house (part 1)

Today I went to my grandmother's house for the last time. Tomorrow, someone else will own this house. This seems almost impossible to believe. My dad was raised in this house. In so many ways, I was raised in this house. The memories in this house are abundant. And they start with the front door. I remember pulling up the driveway in the car with my family. I was a child and filled with the excitement equivalent to christmas morning almost every time we arrived at "grandma and grandpas." We never quite made it to the door before several aunts, uncles, and cousins were already half way accross the yard, welcoming you with warmth and hugs, pet names and teasing, "glad to see yous" and questions. We never entered any other door but this one when first arriving and I would make a beeline to the brown recliner where grandpa sat when he wasn't busy at something. And he would always say the same thing as I came to give him a hug. "So, you've come to see me ONE last time."

Grandma ALWAYS had the house decorated for the appropriate season or occasion. If it was summer, there were fresh zennias from the garden and a scrubbed kitchen floor. If it was fall; brown, calico cloth napkins and a seasonal arrangement. Easter? Small sugared eggs sitting on the pine hutch that were hollow with a little peep hole and a small "something" to look at inside. And Christmas? Of course the Christmas tree and presents hidden under the bed. These little touches to the atmosphere of a home are like magic to a child.

One thing that amazed me, even as a child, was that Grandma used her finest crystal any day of the week, any time of day. I remember being served orange juice in a crystal goblet as a teenager. She wasn't afraid to use and enjoy her finer things. My mother said it was because she was raised in a candy store. Perhaps candy and crystal, fine china and sweets should be enjoyed on a regular wednesday in the middle of January to celebrate nothing at all except life itself.

On the outside one sees a plain ranch with a small wooden door, but on the inside there is a fire in the woodstove, family laughing and doing the polka, and God forbid - drinking terrible-tasting tea out of beautiful crystal.

naomi

Naomi. My left handed girl who can't keep her pencil still. All day long she is creating. She draws, writes stories and illustrates them, sews little what-me-nots, cooks up mudpies, builds outdoor shelters, she even drew a picture of a toilet on her three year old sister. None of my girls are very good at being still. But Naomi especially must create continually and is always needing the supplies to do so. So for her eighth birthday we gave her a desk with plenty of drawers and cubbyholes and stocked it full of every desk item imaginable - from a heavy duty stapler to journals and paper. She spends hours at this desk, creating cards for her sisters and little tiny notes. Yesterday she was left out of a game of memory between Hosanna and Moriah which led her to make her own memory game. She cut small squares of paper and drew a picture on each square making sure to draw two of each. She has been blessed with free art lessons from our neighbors. The father holds an art class at their home and Naomi has been able to attend every Monday night. She is learning so much and is eager to go every week. After each lesson she runs into the house, breathless and excited to show us what she created. I am always amazed at her artwork. It is so exciting to watch your children bloom. I feel blessed to see her passionate about something at such an early age. I believe it is my duty to gently nudge and encourage her, to fan the flame that God has ignited in her little soul. He has given her a gift to create. I am in awe as I watch this little bloom unfold.