Patience? A virtue, you say?

Patience has just not been one of those beautiful gifts with which I have been blessed. I have had to work for every little bit of patience I have ever possessed (thanks be to God, perseverance is one of the gifts I've been blessed with!), and the results are not always what I would call virtuous. Perhaps I judge myself a bit harshly, but then...don't we all?

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The snow is blowing and coming down at a pace. A blanket three to five inches deep is what is expected by nightfall, and I'm convinced that I'm the only one perfectly fine with it. I don't mind a bit being snowed in, especially this winter, while I wait for the small Applelumpkin to make a decision about a birthday.

The weekend wasn't super-snowy, but it was cold and bright, and afforded wonderful light by which to work on the quilt! AND--I FINISHED IT!!!! I am so thrilled to have this part done, and now I truly feel that I can just..........wait.

You know, patiently.

Pictures? You want pictures?? Well, I HAVE pictures!!

First, the co-sleeper. I was very fortunate to spot a listing for a co-sleeper on the infamous craigslist, for a fantastic price. We happened to have some Christmas money just waiting for some special use, and between the two of us, My Darling and I decided that this co-sleeper would be a wonderful gift for our little Applelumpkin.

Now, usually, we would side-car the crib--that is, remove the front side of the crib (which is very sturdy, heavy, OAK even, and can withstand having only the three sides by merit of the fact that it is a convertible crib and meant to be used as a toddler bed down the line), raise the mattress height by adding a second crib mattress, butting it up to my side of the bed, and taking certain precautions to ensure that there is absolutely no gap between the two. It's a lovely arrangement, really, because it gives the baby plenty of room, and means that our queen-size bed does not begin to feel like a camp cot, for Pete's sake.

The downside of this arrangement is that, well, the crib is gigantic. Once it's in place, we don't move it until we're ready to transition whoever is sleeping in it to a room with a sibling, which means it's in our room for about a year. Because I like to have my bedside table handy--for my reading lamp, my glass of water, a place to put my book--you know, the whole reason one would have a bedside table...anyway, the crib is generally centered alongside my side of the bed. This means that my access point at the foot of the bed is only about 18 inches. It's doable, for certain, but it's not in the least bit ideal. Plus, with the size of our room being what it is, and walls not being movable, there are about FOUR inches left between the back side of the crib and the wall. Noooooooooot a whole lot of wiggle room there.

Enter the co-sleeper. It's the length of a bassinet, plus about 6 or so inches. It's the width of a bassinet, plus about 6 or so inches. It is a lovely proportion, and will allow Applelumpkin to be directly beside me, just as though the crib were there, though perhaps not for quite as long. But the good news is, hopefully (she said to herself, secretly praying in earnest that it was a legitimate hope...) the new master bedroom will be finished not too long after this little Applelumpkin makes an appearance--and then the room will be so gigantic--cavernous, even--that having the crib side-car arrangement will not be an inconvenience!

So, in the meantime, I give you...............the CO-SLEEPER!


See the lovely plaid fabric on the back there? It's just for decoration at this point, but I need to find a way to incorporate it. I'm not sure how I'll do that just yet. It's actually a small tablecloth which was found in My Darling's grandmother's cedar chest...it's ridiculously soft, both in texture an the beautiful muted colors. I have a *thing* for antique fabrics and linens, so this fits my bill quite nicely. And as you'll see, the colors are perfect for our needs as well.

When we bought the co-sleeper, I had looked at many reviews of it, and noticed (too late) that several owners reported that the "sheet" which came with it was scratchy, thick, and if laundered in washer and dryer (um......how else would I launder it??) would shrink in such a way that it would no longer fit the mattress. If I had gotten the full-size co-sleeper, a sheet made for a Pack & Play would fit. But the mini? Well, no standard sheet of any kind will fit.

BUT--a standard pillow case does the trick! I used a flannel case, and secured the open end with three diaper pins. Problem solved!


This is where the co-sleeper will eventually be placed. In the very, very beginning days (and nights), Applelumpkin will probably just sleep on My Darling's chest, for that is how all of our babies have begun. And with the number of feedings and diaper changes which happen throughout the night, it's really most convenient. But the day (or night) will come when Applelumpkin will begin to put on the pudge and become squirmy...and need a place to sleep...and that is when the co-sleeper will be employed.

This is my side of the bed. The little plaques with lambs on them hung on the wall at Grandma's house, in what was Aunt M's bedroom. I remember the wallpaper in there was a similar color to my bedroom walls here, and covered in beautiful birds. I'm almost certain, though, that the lambs got their start over my mother's crib back in 1942.

Grandpa made the little wall chest. He loved to craft things out of wood--all of them have this same finish and color. There are bookshelves, sewing organizers, and tables which he made. Grams gave me this little chest and one of her sewing organizers when she moved from her little house. I am honored to have this on the wall in our home.

My bedside table is my touchstone...it holds my glass of water through the night, and I always have some worth-while reading there. The book on top at the moment is Jan Karon's In This Mountain, and just underneath that is Pope Benedict XVI's Jesus of Nazareth. Both are wonderful, and I pick up the one most suited to my mindset. The little shelf next to the table holds more books--the Mitford books are on top, and there is another shelf packed with all different books, from the Mary Poppins books by P.L. Travers to books by Archbishop Fulton Sheen.


I've frequently talked about The Basket. This basket is where my mother, her sisters, my sister and brothers and I, our four maternal cousins, and each of my children have slept in infancy. When I was a baby, Pop rigged hooks on the ceiling and a way for Mom to hang the basket to keep my brother's sticky hands off of my face. I like that I can put it on the kitchen table, or on the gigantic ottoman, or wherever I need to. I can pop it in the back of the van and take it with us to family gatherings if necessary. And for the moment, I like that it so neatly holds all of the things Applelumpkin will need, from tiny t-shirts to receiving blankets to sweet little gowns.

The Towels are there, too. There, on the left, is the towel which will be warmed up in the dryer while I'm busy holding our little Applelumpkin, so that when the time is right, My Darling can hold his youngest child for the first time. That towel, I promise you, is impossibly soft and will be delicious when it's warmed so nicely.


By comparison, here is the Squash as a baby, lying in the basket and playing with his little elephant rattle:


And the Cuppie, barely awake, snuggled into the basket:


So snuggly and cozy that I almost want one for myself.

Well then--a glimpse of the quilt.

I made six nine-patch flannel blocks, ran strips of creamy colored chenille between the blocks, and backed the quilt with the chenille. To finish the edges, I had pondered using a satin binding, but opted to just turn the chenille and tack it around the edges with a decorative zig-zag stitch. I love the way the chocolate brown and the aqua blue work together.


I also found the adorable polka dots in the same aqua and chocolate, and pieced them with the aqua pea pods....I love the print!


The finished product is pretty big--I have it spread across our bed, and it nearly covers the surface of the queen-size mattress. Definitely big enough to snuggle beneath! Oh--and check out the blanket underneath the quilt....my mother-in-law must have had some divine inspiration while she was Christmas shopping. She gave me this king-size plush blanket as a gift for me and Applelumpkin. I could not believe it when I saw the color!! This plush blanket will go in the dryer after The Towel comes out, to be warmed up and then wrapped around me and the little Applelumpkin as we're tucked into bed together. I cannot wait!!


I am definitely not a professional quilter, but my babies don't seem to mind. I am very pleased with the way this quilt turned out, and am very eager to snuggle my newest little one in it.

Better than a month

Bad blogger. Bad, bad, bad little blogger.

What can I say--things here have been pretty even-keeled, which doesn't inspire me much for writing.

The snow finally came. I'm not a fan of cold weather, but I'm even less of a fan when it's cold and gray and brown outside. If it's going to be cold, I want it to be pretty, too. I think I anticipated our snowfall as much as the kids did...as soon as that "S" word was in the forecast, being tossed around like so many flakes, I became excited, anticipating the frozen winter wonderland that was sure to come.

Eight to ten inches, they said. Blizzard conditions, they said. Beginning late evening, they said.

Well no wonder I was disappointed when, upon waking up multiple times in the night to visit the water closet, there was not only a lack of snow on the ground, but also a clear, starry sky above.

They only missed the timing by about.....twenty-four hours. What was supposed to fall on Friday night waited until Saturday.

Better late than never, I suppose, although it did also mean that we wondered until about 9:00 whether we would be able to make it into town for Mass. The comedy was that we left at 9:30, which is a half hour earlier than usual--to give ourselves extra time, of course, because the roads were terrible, of course. But they really weren't! Of the three lanes usually open on the interstate, two were drivable, and one was really just sloppy. So by the time we arrived at church, we had FIFTY minutes before Mass began.

Better early than never, I suppose, although it did also mean that we had the kids run around like wild people in the basement so that those other intrepid souls who braved the city streets (which were not anywhere near as passable as the interstate) were not disturbed in their prayer time before Mass.

The church, as one might imagine, was sparsely populated. But those who were there sang with gusto, responded boldly, and prayed earnestly. It was inspiring!

The drive home was not quite as impressive as the drive in. We took a different road--a state highway, which goes more-or-less directly home just as well as the interstate. As happens every year, the closer we got to home, the worse the road was. For some reason beyond all human understanding, the county in which we live has made the idiotic decision not to use snow fencing. For those of you in warmer climates, snow fencing can be either stick-and-wire fencing or plastic construction site type fencing. The function is to catch the snow on the back side as it blows through, creating a gigantic drift against the fence--and preventing drifting on the road (or your driveway, or whatever you're trying to protect).

Now, I'm just a tax-payer, so I probably have no idea what I'm talking about...but I'm just going to hazard a guess that this fencing is cheaper than sending out plows multiple times, especially when they are sent out when it's not even snowing. The drifting across this particular highway is notorious, and happens anytime it's windy, for Pete's sake, because the wind picks up whatever loose snow is on the surface of the surrounding fields. With no hills and no tree lines to protect the road, the snow just blows right across and covers, usually, an entire lane, and sometimes part of the other for good measure.

I'm thinking, since this is a state highway as well as an interstate alternate, wouldn't it be a priority to make sure it's clear? And wouldn't that priority include, perhaps, making sure that it doesn't become snow-covered when it's not even snowing, for Pete's sake??

Right, I know. Crazy talk. I'll stop. ;)

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I had such a lovely talk with my Grandma yesterday afternoon. She just cheers me up every time we speak. I love hearing her stories, and I ask her various questions every time we talk, just so I can soak her up a little more. When your Grandma is 95 years old, you want to soak up every drop of her that you can.

Yesterday's story was about my mom. Grams and I share the experience of having a baby in February, which tends to be the coldest part of our winter here. The temps plummet well below zero degrees, and the wind chill is even more impressive. The day my Squash was born, for instance, the mercury struggled to read -17 degrees. Chris, the loveliest of midwives, made a note of it in my folder. It was so cold and clear that your eyes felt frozen if you poked your head out the door.

Grams loves to tell the story of when my mom was born. It was February of 1942, and the coldest day of the year. The hospital where Grams delivered was at the top of a hill, which was covered in ice. The tires in those days were no latch for the ice, so it took a long while to get up the drive.

They made it eventually, of course, and my mom was born. She weighed a bit over five pounds--she was right on time, just very small. She's always been very small. The nurses nick-named her "Dolly" because of her petiteness.

Grandpa's mother tried to get hold of him. She called the people and places she knew to call, and finally called the Red Cross. "In those days," says Grams, "Papa didn't think much of the Red Cross. They were do-gooders, but it was nothing then like it is now." Well, they were able to find Grandpa, which was more than anyone else could do!

Since the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor just two months before, Grandpa was off with the Army, and his Division was conducting exercises in advancement. Up the East Coast they were preparing to move, and the men took turns going in groups to scout ahead to find a suitable place for the entire Division to stop, make camp, prepare and eat their evening meal, bed down, and then make their way again in the morning. When the Red Cross found Grandpa, he was in one of the scout groups. He was a Captain, so he was the man in charge. The Division was crossing Northern Florida at the time.

Grandpa was able to get leave for seven days, and it took almost two days for him to get home. He made his way to the hospital to see his first child, expecting a somewhat larger baby...his mother had been so embarrassed by her smallness that she had told Grandpa that Mom weighed six pounds, five ounces, rather than five pounds five ounces.

The nurse said to Grandpa, "Would you like to see your baby?" He said, "Oh, I don't need to. I've seen babies, and they all look the same." Well, that nurse huffed and puffed and stormed out of the room, only to return a few moments later with two babies: my mom tucked into one arm, sweet and tiny and content, and in the other arm, a great big red-faced, squalling, nine pound baby boy with a shock of black hair stuck to his head like bristles on a brush.

"NOW!" said the nurse to Grandpa. "Do you still think all babies look the same?"

Well of course, Grandpa was terribly sheepish, and happily took his daughter into his arms.

They named her and brought her home and had her Baptized. Grandpa had five days left of his leave. He was supposed to get on the train to head East to meet up with his Division, but he received a call from some higher-up officer. This man had a car which he wanted brought to the East Coast so that he could take it on the transport ship with him over to Europe, and he asked Grandpa to drive it.

Grandpa's sister had just been married a few months earlier, and her husband was also on the East Coast waiting to ship out, so she rode along with Grandpa to keep him company, and so that she could say goodbye to her new husband. Grams said it was a good thing, because Grandpa squeaked out every minute he could of that leave, knowing he wouldn't be home for a very long time...and so he had planned to drive straight through. Having his sister along meant that he had company--and someone to keep him awake!

When he got out East and met back up with his Division, Grandpa learned that General MacArthur had ordered their Division to Australia. Australia was under attack from the Japanese at the time. So the men, who had advanced all the way up the East Coast in preparation to ship out to Europe, found themselves getting on a train instead of a boat, and crossing the country to the West in preparation to ship over to Australia. Of course, they didn't know where they were going; they just knew that it wasn't Europe.

Grams said how glad she was for that time of leave with Grandpa. He left when Mom was ten days old, and the next time he saw his daughter, she was a week shy of turning three years old.

Thankfully, Grandma's younger brother was just returning from some army training, and was able to finish out the winter helping Grandma with household things like cleaning the chimney and splitting wood.

I had heard the story many times about the coldest day of the year, the icy hill, Grandpa's mother misreporting Mom's birth weight, the remark about all babies looking the same--but I hadn't heard the part about Grandpa and the army.

Things are stressed for us right now. We are feeling the financial pinch of a much smaller paycheck than we should be getting, and the house is much cooler this year than last year in an effort to shrink the heat bill. But I stand in awe of my Grandma and her contemporaries who shipped their men off to a war that killed hundreds of thousands of a generation in an effort to protect the world. It is a staggering and sobering thing to ponder, and I am inexplicably grateful to God that I am living and raising my family right here, right now.

Winter Wonderland

When it's well below zero, as it was last week for most of the week, even the running rivers steam.

I grew up in a river community. The house that our family owned (and where my mom still lives) was only a block from the river bank. When I was small, across the street from the house there was a lumber yard. When the village was first settled, the loggers would float the logs from up north down the river to the mill, where the lumber workers would draw them out, plane them down, and stock and sell the lumber or ship it out on the train.

I remember the yard being sold when I was seven or eight years old, and the buildings being used for a controlled burn by the local fire department. The fire was so hot that we could feel it scorch our faces from about a hundred yards away as we watched from our front porch with dishes full of popcorn.

There's a bank there now.

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The river is always a great spectacle during the winter. When everything else is frozen solid and appearing to be completely devoid of all things living, the river teems with life. Though the ducks and geese have gone for the winter to warmer surroundings, the bald eagles have come in great numbers. They nest along the bluffs and soar high above the village, watching the river and its banks with their sharp eyes, waiting for a quick meal. With their wings wide open, they are the majestic kings of the sky.

Think of it! Think of a man, standing six feet tall or better, and then of a bird whose wings would outstretch his height. It never ceases to amaze me, pondering the variances of God's great creations: the smallest hummingbird would scarcely be visible next to the talloned foot of the great bald eagle. Yet each of them is perfectly designed, purposefully and beautifully created by the same God who created my soul and yours.

Astounding.

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I remember waking up at Gram's house when I was small. Her living room windows looked out on the river, and in January and February, it was always a sight to behold.

This time of year, the water is always warmer than the air. Because the river which flows past town never freezes, when it's bitter cold, the river lets off steam into the air above it.

And on frigid days, this steam clings to every single branch, every blade of marsh grass, every tiny leaf which has still managed to hang on...and it freezes there. The result is something out of CS Lewis' Narnia--a shining, sparkling wonderland of pure white hoarfrost.

While butterflies and violets delight the senses during the warm summer months, this gorgeous natural masterpiece is a blessing to the eyes of all who gaze upon it.

I'll have to take the camera out next time God graces us with the beauty of hoarfrost...

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And another delight?

My Pumpkin, my Snuggle Bug...she is two months old this very day.

And I am blessed.

Over the River and Through the Woods, Part II

If I'm going to write about Grandma's house, I have to put a little bit about Grandpa in here.

My Grandpa, from what I've been told, was a wonderful man. He was quiet and thoughtful. He loved the outdoors. He wrote poetry. He had a gentle demeanor about him. He enjoyed good conversation and the comforts of home.

The Grandpa that I remember, though, was mostly silent. Soon after the Korean War, Grandpa began experiencing strokes. They were small at first, and apparently somewhat clustered. He retained the ability to see, talk and eat in the beginning. I've seen pictures of him with thick glasses and a cane, but standing tall with the rest of the family, smiling.

A few weeks after I was born, Grandpa suffered two rather serious strokes which left him blind in his right eye, paralyzed on the right side, unable to speak (though he could vocalize in tones similar to hums and grunts), and unable to chew. Grandpa could swallow, but his food had to be blenderized and he could not have anything thinner than 2% milk. Grandma had to feed him every bite.

When we were kids, Grandpa was a fixture in the living room at Grandma's house. We would come in, shuck off our coats and lay them on the stairs, and go say hello to Grandpa. He was right inside the living room door, sitting on the love seat, his cane tucked between the cushions. There was a little table that sat to his right, which held a wooden tray holding a glass of milk and a small candy dish. The dish was full of the Generic Grandpa Candies--the small, dry, pink, mildly flavored discs that came from the drug store. We would say, "Hi Grandpa. May I have a candy, please?" and Grandpa would nod his "yes."

Grandpa always sat on the love seat when Grandma wasn't working with him. The love seat, after all, faced the huge wall of windows, which looked over his beloved rock garden and the river. He was there always--on Christmas, birthdays, and even the day my mom's youngest sister was married in the dining room. From where Grandpa sat though, he mostly saw the tops of the trees on the river bank and the water between the branches. I remember the day that Grandma said she was going to have a deck built. There was a large screened-in back porch, which when my mom was a kid was used as a sleeping porch in the warmer months, but when I was a kid it was used mainly for easily accessible storage and was no longer ideal for just sitting. Grandpa had a yearning for sitting outside, so the deck was built. One section of windows, those of the dining room, were mostly removed, and the door to go out on the deck was installed. Grandma moved the comfortable chair that Grandpa had long used on the street-facing front porch to the river-facing deck, and he would spend a couple of hours out there each day when the weather was fair.

Each day, Grandma would come downstairs before Grandpa was awake and begin to prepare for her day. She would pray, read in her Guideposts booklet, and get things ready for breakfast. When he awoke, Grandpa would use his cane to knock against the floor. Their bedroom was above the dining room, and Grandma could easily hear the muffled summons. She would go upstairs and help Grandpa sit up on the edge of the bed. Grandpa could support himself on the left side with his cane, but Grandma was his rock on the right side. She would put his arm around her shoulders and slowly help him make his way into the bathroom where she brushed his teeth and washed his face.

Down the stairs they would come, with Grandma talking to him, quietly encouraging him, directing him, and telling him about what the day would hold. She would bring him into the kitchen and sit him at the table, where he waited patiently for her to bring his breakfast of oatmeal. He enjoyed sitting by the window and watching the birds, as Grandma carefully fed him each bite. She was always so patient with him, riding out his moments of frustration (as well as her own), always serving him and loving him in such a tender way. Had I only been old enough to truly appreciate the dedication and perseverance that this required.....but as you can tell, it definitely made an impression.

After breakfast, it was time for a shave. Grandma did this, too, of course. I still remember the sound of the electric shaver, and the smell of the balm she applied to his cheeks, chin and neck afterward. It was the scent that was on his T-shirts...always extra-long, and if you "forgot" your pajamas or were having an unexpected sleep over, Grandma would get one of Grandpa's T-shirts for you to wear instead. They were so soft and worn that they felt like a second skin. And they smelled like Grandpa. That scent, together with the comforting scent of the pillowcase was enough to lull even the most rambunctious child into a deep slumber.

Grandma would let Grandpa sit at the kitchen table for a few minutes, and she would move into the living room to open up the Hide-A-Bed that was in the love seat. She would smooth the sheet and put the pillow in its place and then assist Grandpa on to the bed. There, for 30 minutes every day, Grandma would work Grandpa through his physical therapy. She would help his raise his legs, bend them to his chest, stretch them out straight, and let them back down. She rotated his hips and ankles. She flexed his feet forward and back, being always mindful of his signals of fatigue or discomfort.

After the therapy sessions, Grandma would sit Grandpa in her chair, fold up the Hide-A-Bed, and then take Grandpa in to the downstairs bathroom. There she would sit him on his shower chair and help him bathe, then dress. Grandpa was back in his spot on the love seat by about 8:00 each morning.

To make ends meet, and to keep herself near Grandpa (as he couldn't be left alone, for Pete's sake), Grandma did odd jobs. Truly they were a little odd, but they are jobs which must be done by someone. First, there was the phone on the entry hall book case. It was plugged in upstairs, and when it rang, Grandma would say, "G.E. Funeral Home, Mrs. F speaking, may I help you?" Grandma answered the phone for the funeral home right there in her house. It never ceased to astound us that this was possible. The callers were mostly hospitals or families, and sometimes attorneys, making arrangements for someone to come pick up a deceased loved one. Grandma would call her employer at home and let him know that a call had come in. That's all there was to it.

The other odd job was that Grandma collected small town newspapers from local communities and would go through the obituaries. She cut them out, making certain she didn't have duplicates, and type up an information card for each, scanning the article for the family name, next of kin, and place of funeral and burial. Then she would glue the obituary to the back of the card. Each week, she delivered these cards to the local monument company--the cards were used to help contact local families who needed assistance with cemetery markers.

As off the wall as these jobs sound, they are just a necessary part of life. Of course, Grandma's jobs are no longer needed, what with the advent of computers and voice mail. But in those days, Grandma worked hard to respect and honor people who needed support in their dark days of grief.

When Grandma needed to go somewhere (she often volunteered in various capacities at the nursing home, her church, and elsewhere in the community), she would call my mom or one of her sisters to come sit with Grandpa for respite. This meant that sometimes we got to go along. We would sit and look out the window or read a book--Grandpa did not like to watch much television, preferring instead to listen to Chapter A Day or All Things Considered. Then came the day of Cable Television. I remember well the big box on the long cord, with buttons that Grandpa could punch to change the channel. I think there were about 25 buttons on that box, but Grandpa only ever liked Number 2 (CNN) and Number 11 (PBS). Our favorite was Number 4 (Nickelodeon) because they played the old shows--Dennis the Menace, Mr. Ed, The Munsters, My Three Sons.....we loved watching those, and they were the ones Grandpa didn't mind. Don't try to watch "You Can't Do That on Television" though; Grandpa would immediately start vocalizing his disagreement, and the channel would ultimately be changed.

The rest of the day for Grandma and Grandpa would progress much the same--Grandpa would hum when he needed Grandma to take him to the bathroom or when he was thirsty. Grandma would check on him in between times, always saying, "Are you doing alright, Papa? Would you like me to sit with you for a few minutes?" Each afternoon, Grandpa's eyes would drift shut, and Grandma would sit in the recliner and put her feet up. Sometimes she would doze off, too.

Grandma would take Grandpa upstairs for bed at about 9:00. After some time to herself, she would go up to join him. Every day was like this, with Grandma taking such tender care of her husband, seeing that each need was met to the best of her ability.

Grandpa came down with pneumonia in November of 1984, ten years after the big strokes that had left him an invalid. Grandma knew that she could no longer give him the kind of care that he needed, so he was taken to the hospital. On January 21, 1985, Grandpa died. It must have been a weekend day, because I remember that my brother and sister and I were home from school when the call came.

We were sad, of course, but it was a strange sadness. Because we hadn't really known Grandpa the way we knew Grandma, what we came to miss was his presence. It was bittersweet to see the look of relaxed peace on Grandma's face after Grandpa's death. She had loved him well, and had certainly lived out their wedding vows in a way that is so rare these days. She had cared for him for ten long years, every single day, and it took her a long time to settle into a pattern of not having to do things for him anymore, and having time to herself to do the things she wanted to do. As it turned out, Grandma went from serving Grandpa to serving others even more than she had before. She continued to volunteer at the nursing home, taking the mail around and reading to those who were unable to. She taught adults to read through a community program. She typed up routing lists for the Meals On Wheels program, and twice a week, she was a driver and delivery person. Sometimes I got to ride along and visit the people she served. Grandma just has a servant's heart, and always has. To this day she continues to volunteer as she is able, though it is considerably less of late.

The love seat stayed exactly where it was in Grandma's living room in the following years. We slept on it for afternoon snoozes and sat on it to read books. When Grandma moved into her apartment, the love seat came to live in my living room, and is used for much the same purpose. But Grandpa's spot will always be Grandpa's spot.

Over the River and Through the Woods

I love talking to my grandma.

Grandma will be 93 this September. She would probably shush me for saying that, but I happen to think it's one of the greatest things in the world. 93? How many of us even know anyone that old anymore, for Pete's sake?! In this picture, Grandma's holding my four-week-old Monkey. Grandma was a mere 90, and my Monkey was her 10th Great-Grandchild. Two days later, my cousin's wife had Number 11. We will be giving Grandma Great-Grandchild Number 14 in December when the Bean makes it's appearance.

About three years ago, Grandma started making noise about selling her house. She had lived in her little house (she called it her little cottage) for 55 years, and was ready to move to an apartment that was easier to care for.

Grandma's house had three bedrooms--they were perhaps a bit on the small side, but it was, after all, a cottage. :) There were hardwood floors in each of the bedrooms, and Grandma swept over them with the dust mop every week. Long braided rugs cushioned your feet each morning, and these were taken out and put on the line to air after a good shake when company was coming. There was a beautiful bathroom upstairs, with a deep cast iron claw foot tub that is just right for a long soak. Interestingly enough, when we were kids the tub was never used. I don't remember why. But we always brushed our teeth in that bathroom when we spent the night, which was often.

If you were lucky, you'd get to sleep in Aunt M's room. The wallpaper was a warm dark peach color with fancy birds on it. Even though those Sell-Your-House-If-It's-Designed-Just-Right shows would tear it out in an instant, I loved that wallpaper. The bed was a double, and there was a reading lamp fixed to the wall above the headboard, and a nightlight plugged in just above the pillow. I loved sleeping in that room. The east window looked out on the river. The north window looked over the side yard, with the purple hostas below. The pillows and sheets were always soft and cool, and had a very comforting smell about them. As a child, that smell meant it was time to snuggle down and go to sleep. It was the smell of being safe, warm, and well loved.

The linen cupboard in the hall had a scent I'll never forget. I don't know what kind of wood it was lined with--perhaps nothing special. What I do know is that when we bought this house and I stored my folded linens in my own cupboard--some of them my Grandma's that she had given to me--and then later took them out to make a bed, the pillow cases smelled just the same as Grandma's! This is a thing that shall never fail to bring me comfort and joy, for it gives life to my memories of the pillows at Grandma's house.

To go down the stairs at Grandma's meant that you stopped on the fourth step down...because there was a nook in the wall. We were absolutely fascinated by this nook. Why was it there? What purpose could it possibly serve? It was about 15 inches square at the opening, 18 inches deep, and framed and lined with darkly stained wood. It had things in it that didn't require daily use--those old, tall votive candles that our schools used to sell in fund raiser fliers, that had scenes of cute animals in winter or bunnies in the spring. Little plastic pine and poinsettia wreathes. Crocheted door decorations. We would take the things out, line them up on the steps above us, and imagine ourselves small like the Littles, so that we could climb into the nook to play. Even though we knew we couldn't fit, somehow it was always a little bit of a disappointment to rediscover the truth. Eventually we'd have to put the things back into the nook and head downstairs.

On the landing was a double window with a seat. It was a west-facing window, so Grandma had a shelf along the middle of the windows, lined the whole works with a scrap of vinyl flooring, and had dozens of plants there. Some of them were in clear plastic dishes so that the water didn't dribble down onto the carpet stair runner. After a fashion, there were folded towels in place so that the cats (she always had one, sometimes two) could sun themselves in the afternoon.

The bottom part of the stairs was where we'd shuck our coats. Since the stairs were right inside the door (actually though, to the left), it was also where Grandma would put things that needed to go to someone else's house--a magazine or book, a small box of something--but if it was not easily squeezed between the rungs, then it was placed on the square-topped newel post. I never heard anyone else call it that, though I knew many other people who had them. In the fall, the newel post held small dishes of candy corn or chocolate kisses. At Christmas time, there were red hots, peppermint or traditional ribbon candies.

The kitchen was big enough for a small table, which sat in front of the west-facing window from the time Grandma and Grandpa and my mom and her sister moved in. Grandma would sit at the table and play solitaire, or work on her Meals-on-Wheels route list, or read, or just look out the window at the hundreds of birds that visited her feeders each day. She could name a kind of bird in a flash, and if she didn't know what it was, she'd have you get the "B" encyclopedia from the bookshelf in the entry hall so she could look it up and help us to learn something new.

Sometimes we would sit at Grandma's table and play Go Fish or War or King's Corners with her. Maybe she'd fix macaroni and cheese or cream of mushroom soup. It was at that table that I first tried cottage cheese. "College cheese," she called it, and declared that to eat it would be to become very smart. She fed me cream of broccoli soup one day, using the excuse that she was out of cream of mushroom. "It tastes almost the same," she said. Of course it didn't, but it was her clever way of getting me to try something new. It worked. From that day forward, I have loved both cream of broccoli soup and broccoli itself.

When we were very small, we would sit in the youth chair--a glorified high chair, to be sure, but try to find one nowadays and you pay a pretty penny. That chair made even the shortest whelp feel tall, because you could reach your plate and you weren't looking the edge of the table in the eye. Grandma had a glass divided plate with strawberries on it and little Real Silver silverware. And to finish the setting, a pink plastic cup in the shape of Captain Kangaroo. I suppose one could be a little creeped out by the swirly golden eyes, but we loved the Captain Kangaroo cup and if there was more than one of us at Grandma's, we would fuss over who would get to use it.

The living room and dining room were one big room, with a long wall of east-facing windows which looked over a Japanese rock garden, and, after a fashion, the river. Grandpa had painstakingly laid out and built the rock garden after their family lived in Japan for three years while Grandpa fought in the Korean War. He had loved that garden, and it saddened Grandma greatly when she could no longer keep it up the way she wanted to.

I realize now how long this entry is becoming....I'll have to section it, I suppose. More Grandma's House Stories another time.