I’ve been thinking about my paternal grandparents lately.
I can still see the cornfield on the edge of their property in Stratford, Ontario. The dry corn husks rub against each other in the warm August wind, making a hollow, scraping sound. Looking out the picture window of my grandpa’s study at the back of their modest farm house, I admire the big yard with a stone bird bath, pigeon coop, and gazebo in the corner.
The room is dark with brown and green walls, carpet and furniture. His old leather chair and mahogany desk with the green blotter take up most of it; the pigeon racing trophies and ribbons line the shelves of the bookcase. Two TV trays wait in the corner, ready for plates of burgers and thick beef tomato slices, always with a generous amount of salt and pepper strewn across the plate. The giant grandfather clock in the corner tick-tocks with a soothing, baritone cadence.
Tiki, the black and white chihuahua, snores peacefully in his corner bed.
My grandpa walks into the room with an exaggerated swaying motion to accommodate his swollen knees, bow-legged from the pain. He’s wearing his 1950s pale blue cotton pyjamas, a matching set with buttons for the top. He exhales loudly as he sinks into his chair, taking a swig of his Johnny Walker whiskey on ice. He flashes a big smile, eyes twinkling, and points at the coop. He proudly lists off the pigeon celebrities and their accomplishments, promising to take me to the coop the next morning for a better look.
Grandma sits facing the window, staring up at the moon; she looks deep in thought. A deep frown creases her forehead, but her expression doesn’t match her soft, even voice when she speaks. She laughs at Grandpa’s joke, patting her freshly-set, silver permed hair. Her terry cloth shorts and white sandals show off her muscular legs as she crosses them. She leans back in the chair, content to let him do the talking.
The feeling is safety, warmth and belonging. I snuggle into the big chair hearing the cicadas in the distance. Seven years old and I am right at home, even if it’s just a few weeks a year.
Do you have memories of your grandparents that stay with you?
A few years back, my neighbor's oven was not working and he made a "pizza" and asked me to bake it for him. I put it into the oven and within 10 minutes, the smell permeated the whole house. It smelled EXACTLY like the pizza bread my grandmother used to make.
I had to be about 7 the last time I she made it, but it brought me right back to the warmth and love of my grandparents' apartment. It's amazing what sense memory can do!