Driving up the black-paved country road, I spy my grandparents’ house peeking through the thin line of pine trees, and instinctively I blurt out the traditional “I see Grandma’s house!” Old habits die hard, I guess. I turn into the circular pebble driveway, hearing the crunch as the tiny rocks grind together under the weight of my car. As I step out, my nose is immediately assaulted with the fragrances of my past: irises, lilies, carnations, roses, hydrangeas, and crisp country air.
While strolling down the walkway toward what has become my second home over the years, I unconsciously let my eyes slide over to peek at the dying grass in the front yard. My imagination conjures up an epic acorn war between Trayse and me. My older cousin usually won these fights, except for that one time when I pegged him right in the eye. Needless to say, I was the victor. A brief smirk flits across my face, and I march up the three cement steps onto the wooden porch. Just before I open the front door, I pause and steal a glance at the porch swing and rickety old pew. These unremarkable objects have come to hold so much significance in my life: so many tears shed, several heart-to-heart talks, and the joyous occasions that still warm my heart.
I push open the maroon door, forgetting yet again to catch it before it slams into the glass armoire full of fragile antiques. It still baffles me that in eighteen years, nothing has ever broken in that ancient piece of furniture. I automatically toss my purse carelessly onto the couch in the entryway and stride over to stand in the doorway of the living room on the right. Suddenly, my mind flashes back to a sweet old man and a scrawny little girl both chuckling at the antics of Tom and Jerry, and bursting out in peals of laughter when Wile E. Coyote fails once again to capture Road Runner. There I am, sitting on Pawpaw’s lap in that tattered blue recliner, watching our cartoons. That was our time together, the time when we were connected on all levels of life. I blink, the memory fades, and the old sadness washes over me. The beloved scene is replaced by Paula Deen’s nasty voice emitting from the television in the corner and Gigi, my grandma, rocking and knitting in her neat beige recliner. She stands and embraces me, immediately questioning me about college, boys, classes, church, friends, and life in general. I inwardly sigh and crank out the same answers to the same set of questions: college is great; there is…still…no guy in my life; I’m making good grades in my classes; I really love the church I’m attending and the campus Baptist student organization; I have made a lot of terrific friends, and life is fantastic. Gigi never ceases to ask me the same exact questions every time I see her; this is probably why I love her so much.
After chatting for a few minutes and informing Gigi that Mom would be arriving soon, I decided to slip into the kitchen for a snack. I dodge imaginary paper airplanes thrown by Trayse and my seven-year-old self. The pantry contains Pop-Tarts and Sunchips…and an old hiding spot in the back corner. Trayse could always find the best hiding places, which is why I almost always lost at hide-and-seek. I turn toward the kitchen counter and see the different arrays of food from all the Thanksgivings, Christmases, and family reunions that have taken place here over the years. My favorite part of the meals has always been my grandma’s famous pumpkin rolls. My mouth starts to salivate as I think about the delicious concoction. I shake my head and block out the taunting memories. Thank God that Thanksgiving is only a few weeks away. Upon reentering the living room, I see Trayse and the Campbell boys passed out on the couch and on various pallets on the floor, after unsuccessfully trying to camp outside overnight. I always knew those boys were a bunch of pansies. Then again, at the age of eleven, what boys aren’t? Mom and Gigi are already discussing how to decorate the house for Christmas and what they should get as presents for my baby cousins, and I start to giggle as I reminisce about previous Christmases. Aunt Tiffany, Trayse, and I always waited until all the adults were out of the house before we raided the presents under the Christmas tree, relentlessly trying to figure out what was underneath the snowman-printed wrapping paper. Occasionally our assumptions would be right, but most of the time the grown-ups would win the fight and surprise us with what they bought for us. They always outsmarted us, dang it….
The gentle, comforting darkness of night closes in quickly, and Mom and Gigi head off to bed, leaving me alone. I eye the cabinet beneath the TV, deciding whether or not I want to take yet another trip down memory lane. The negative side never had a chance. I pull out a couple of my favorite home movies and let my mind escape to the innocent adventures of my childhood.
