PREDICTABILITY BREEDS LOVE Summers at my granny’s house come back to tease my brain, reminding me of favorite days I shall never see again. My papa was a gifted man, a carpenter by trade; built the house in which they lived, between two oaks for shade. Their home rose up two-stories high with living space on top, the bottom floor reserved for work… the place we called “the shop”. When Papa wasn’t sawing wood, he tended to his bees, honey bees that lived in hives out back among the trees. Flowers stretched for yards and yards up to the street out front, providing nectar for the bees while on their daily hunt. An upstairs window every dawn revealed my granny there, moving through her garden with tender loving care. She’d take a break when we woke up come in for just a while, fix our breakfast, sprinkle clothes, then roll them in a pile. She’d put them in a plastic bag then in the fridge they’d go, then back into the yard she went, back to her garden hoe. After lunch, we played outside while Granny stayed indoors, sitting at her black machine with the treadle on the floor. “Laddle, laddle, laddle, laddle!” would fill the summer air while she, in the open window, sewed clothes for us to wear. Now and then, she’d yell, “Yoo hoo!” and pull us from our friends to come inside and try on clothes, exclaiming: “Careful with the pins!” She sewed and sewed, not just for us, but for the neighbors, too to put some money in their purse for times were hard they knew. Yes, summers at my granny’s house were predictable as rain reminding me of favorite days I shall never see again. ©Copyright November 15, 2003 by Nancy L. Meek Note: A half century after their death, the house was demolished, leaving only the mental images in my mind...heavy sigh.
Posted on: Sat, 07 Sep 2013 18:13:57 +0000
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