That Old House Filled With Memories

I hadn’t been there in a couple of winters.  And it seemed to have gotten colder, with the trees more desolate.  We drove up to the aged house.  The off-white paint was starting to fade and peel and the corners.  We all got out of the car and steeped into the deep snow bank.

            The snow bank was white at first glance.  But upon further inspection, there were flecks of dirt, asphalt, grass.  My grandma, my mom, and I trudged into the old house; carrying our luggage across our chests so that it wouldn’t get wet in the snow.  Great-Grandpa was there at the front door waiting for us.  Arms wide open, ready for a hug.

            We all stepped through the front door and I gave him the biggest hug that I could muster.  “Why hello to you, too, dear!” were his first words.  As we traveled deeper into the house, the less taken care of it, it is.  The cabinets have a layer of dust, bowls and cups have a layer of film on them, and every time I step on the antique carpet, a cloud of dust erupts.

            The kitchen sink is filled to the brim with dirty dishes; soaking in the tiniest bit of water and a little soap.  I feel the water, its ice cold.  I grab a cup from the cupboard and a layer of grime is upon the surface.  I put the cup on counter, reminding myself to grab a water bottle later.  I grab my bags and being them up the tiny, curving staircase.

            The upstairs is clean.  Last winter, every family member was here, cleaning and organizing everything.  Boxes surrounded us with all the memories of the children, aunts, uncles, grandparents that had lived here.  Down the hall is the bedroom that I always pick.  It’s in the front of the house with two twin beds in it.  I pick the small twin bed closest to the wall.  The bed is covered with a homemade quilt; probably made by my Great-Grandma.  There are also two yellow pillows.  I lie on the bed and begin to think.

            This time it’s going to be harder.  Last time we were here, we were upstairs; Great-Grandpa couldn’t come up here and see what we were boxing away.  What was designated as trash and what was for good-will.  I hope he understands that what we are doing for him is what’s best.  He doesn’t need all this stuff.  As I’m thinking, I drift off into a nice sleep.

            I wake up the next morning to the conversation between my family in the kitchen.  I pull on a sweatshirt and make sure my socks are on.  The ground is cold; I can feel it through my socks.  I remind myself to bring warmer socks next time.  As I head downstairs I notice the old antiques in the windowsill.  Nobody has probably touched them in ages.  So I grab one.  It’s a small figurine of a girl playing with her cat.  The color is slightly fainted, but still portrays the beauty of the piece.  I wonder how old it is, and make a mental reminder to ask Great-Grandpa later, as I put the figurine back where it belongs.

            I eat breakfast and then I’m put to work.  Clean out this room, clean out that room, organize those cards, wash the dishes, and vacuum those two rooms.  It goes on all day, but I enjoy it.  As I work, Great-Grandpa tells me stories.  What Grandma was like when she was little, what he was like when he was younger, what the Great Depression was like, how he met Great-Grandma.  It goes on all day.  I’ve never seen Great-Grandpa like this.

            When Great-Grandma was around she was always the one talking, expressing her views.  I can tell Great-Grandpa loved her.  It’s noticeable to anyone.  That’s why I do this, to help Great-Grandpa.  All this stuff that is in the house reminds him of her.  It’s sad really.  But that’s why we visit. 

            Three days later when it’s time for us to leave, I give Great-Grandpa another hug with all the love I can muster.  I tell him that I will see him soon, and that I’ll write too.  As we walk out the door, I notice the boxes in plain view.  I tell Mom that we can’t leave yet; we still have one more job to do.  “What?” she asks and I tell her.  “We have to move the boxes.”  Great-Grandpa tells us not to worry, that he will do it later.  I tell him no and start to move the boxes out of view of where Great-Grandpa usually is.  He doesn’t need that daily reminder that Great-Grandma is no longer here.  She may be in a better place now, but I can tell Great-Grandpa is lonely.

            Once the final job is complete I give Great-Grandpa a hug.  I follow it with a kiss on the cheek.  I look at Great-Grandpa and he gives me a warm smile.  “I’ll see you next year,” is all he says as we leave through the front door.  The front door is beautiful.  A big oak one.  It has a small window at the top just big enough to let light in.  I’m about to walk through and leave until next year when I remember.  “Great-Grandpa?  Who is the figurine on the windowsill for?”

            He smiles again, a big warm smile that reaches to his eyes “That was for your Great-Grandma.  I gave that to her when I married her.  It reminded me of why I loved her.  She had childlike qualities in her that she would never grow out of.”

            I smiled at him and closed the door.  I knew that he would be okay.  Although the stuff of Great-Grandma would be difficult for me to be around everyday; it was the way in which Great-Grandpa kept alive the memory of her everyday.