This house is irrevocably part of me. Its comforting, unique smell is in my bones.
This house is a humble house, except the the rhododendron and cedar and ivy and huge azaleas and spider lilies and roses and boxwoods and concord grape vine set this house apart. It is a humble house. Yet, it is not. It is the holder of memories–large and small. Memories of Spam and LeSueur peas eaten off pale green plastic plates that we perched on the pulled down dishwasher door, which was our table. Of Piggy Fish blowing bubbles every time you walked in the kitchen. Of the small milk jugs that no longer held milk, but water, ice cold from the fridge. Of little treasures to be found in every drawer and closet. Of the sound of a percolator and the scent of Mom’s Maxwell House coffee. Of sneaking a Dr. Pepper. Of spitting grape seeds at each other in the back yard or munching on the tiny, tangy sweet tomatoes plucked out of the garden. Of thinking a favorite stuffed animal was gone for good, only to find him wrapped under the Christmas tree a year later. Of waking up early to watch old cartoons since we weren’t allowed to watch cartoons at home. Of seeing reindeer prints outside in the frost out front one Christmas morning & marveling that Santa really did come to the house. Of farm water in jugs by the back door, because you never drank water from the faucet, just from the farm. Of finding bizarre rocks, that we thought were priceless, buried under the azaleas. Of eating tuna fish on Saltine crackers in the den with tv trays. Of the feel of that uniquely Northern Virginia grass underneath bare feet. Of the smell of old books as you wound your way upstairs. Of the strange delight in sleeping on the sofa on the glassed-in side porch–surrounded by huge cedars, cardinals feasting at the feeder, a world of its own. Of the smell of crayons and paper when you opened the drawer of the coffee table. Of the excitement of real snow, of sledding, of snow angels, of walking for what felt like miles to our other grandmother’s house when the city shut down–so still, so quiet. It was ours. That snowy city.
It is unbearable, almost, to think of this house becoming someone else’s. Yet, in time, some other child will make memories here. In the mean time, I cherish the visits. Cherish the deep breath I take when I first walk in–trying to engrave the smell forever in my memory band. Cherish still sneaking a Dr. Pepper or eating Saltines in the den. Cherish still knowing where everything is because it hasn’t ever moved. Cherish looking over at my grandmother as she sits in her spot on the corner of the sofa, legs crossed just so, lanolin lotion & Dr. Pepper close at hand. This house holds good memories and the most wonderful grandmother.
Photographs taken with a Nikon F. 35mm. Kodak Porta 160.
