Over the River and Through the Woods
A year ago at this time, I was giddy with anticipation. I loaded LM up in the car and drove 11 hours to my sister’s home in Michigan. We arose early the next morning, loaded all 6 of us into a rented mini-van (much to Bear’s disdain) and drove 5 hours to my grandparent’s home in western Illinois. At the time, due to limited vacation days and a lack of funds, I hadn’t seen my grandparents in 6 years or more. When I had lived in Illinois, they were a short two hour drive, one I would frequent with the baby in tow just to spend the day with Gram. Now, it took a series of logistics to get us there with the limited time that we had and the very limited funds, but it was a priority of the highest order.
On the drive, we sang songs like “Sweet Home Alabama” and “We Will Rock You” at the top of our lungs. We giggled and laughed and told stories from our childhood days. LM had been 2 ½ the last time we had see my grandparents, so we took the time to familiarize him with the stories, to get familiar with people he didn’t have a mental image for other than through pictures.
As we drove across the flat, patchwork farmland of Illinois, I traveled back to my youth, to days of going to Bobby Walter’s for ice cream. A tradition so entrenched that the owner would even be sure to have lemon ice cream on hand if he heard my mother was coming to town for a visit. We saw the pharmacy where we used to stop to see my aunt.
We hadn’t told my grandma that LM and I were coming. She was expecting my sister and her family, they make the journey twice a year to see her, but I was along for the surprise. She wasn’t at all certain who I was at first, despite being the only redhead in the family. She said later she just couldn’t for the life of her believe that I was there, all the way from Pennsylvania.
We spent a very short two days there, but they are days I will not soon forget. I can sit in my grandmother’s kitchen and close my eyes and hear my mother when she talks. Without saying it aloud, we all silently miss Mom together. She is there, with us, bridging the generations. I can see her smile as she hugs her mom, I can hear them laugh together. I can see it all come back together, if I just close my eyes and listen.
G’ma’s house has a certain smell to it. It smells old, but in a comforting way. Her table is always set the same way, meals will always include Jell-o. Granddad will always fall asleep in his wheelchair. And after the meals are complete, G’ma will dump the leftovers into a pot, mix in a little milk, warm it just enough and take it outside for the kitties. She used to do this everyday on the farm and has continued to do so even now that they live in town, feeding cats that are no longer her own.
My sister and her family are on their way again this year. They will go make sure that all the jobs that need to be done around the apartment are taken care of. They will go to Wal*Mart and make sure they have the clothes and supplies that they need. They will treat them all to Hardee’s or maybe a pizza. They will stay two towns away as it’s the closest motel, one with a pool for the kids. They will drive through the towns that defined the phrase, “nothing to do”. Small towns of no more than 500 people and a post office. And before they leave, G’ma will give my sister a box or two filled with items that she wants us to have. Some items of no consequence at all, but tucked unnoticeably inside will be something precious. Last year, we found the wedding bands of my g’ma and her mother both, tucked inside a little handbag. Slowly, she gives us her life’s mementos. And we treasure every part.
I miss her today. I miss the way my granddad smiles when George does something mischievous. I will miss talking with my uncle, the only child left of three, the one who maybe said three words to me as a child and now will talk on and on. I miss the three great-grandchildren going outside to sweep off the porch, doing the little things they know how to do to help out.
I will even miss George’s water bottle, filled with orange cracker backwash.
Today I am homesick.
On the drive, we sang songs like “Sweet Home Alabama” and “We Will Rock You” at the top of our lungs. We giggled and laughed and told stories from our childhood days. LM had been 2 ½ the last time we had see my grandparents, so we took the time to familiarize him with the stories, to get familiar with people he didn’t have a mental image for other than through pictures.
As we drove across the flat, patchwork farmland of Illinois, I traveled back to my youth, to days of going to Bobby Walter’s for ice cream. A tradition so entrenched that the owner would even be sure to have lemon ice cream on hand if he heard my mother was coming to town for a visit. We saw the pharmacy where we used to stop to see my aunt.
We hadn’t told my grandma that LM and I were coming. She was expecting my sister and her family, they make the journey twice a year to see her, but I was along for the surprise. She wasn’t at all certain who I was at first, despite being the only redhead in the family. She said later she just couldn’t for the life of her believe that I was there, all the way from Pennsylvania.
We spent a very short two days there, but they are days I will not soon forget. I can sit in my grandmother’s kitchen and close my eyes and hear my mother when she talks. Without saying it aloud, we all silently miss Mom together. She is there, with us, bridging the generations. I can see her smile as she hugs her mom, I can hear them laugh together. I can see it all come back together, if I just close my eyes and listen.
G’ma’s house has a certain smell to it. It smells old, but in a comforting way. Her table is always set the same way, meals will always include Jell-o. Granddad will always fall asleep in his wheelchair. And after the meals are complete, G’ma will dump the leftovers into a pot, mix in a little milk, warm it just enough and take it outside for the kitties. She used to do this everyday on the farm and has continued to do so even now that they live in town, feeding cats that are no longer her own.
My sister and her family are on their way again this year. They will go make sure that all the jobs that need to be done around the apartment are taken care of. They will go to Wal*Mart and make sure they have the clothes and supplies that they need. They will treat them all to Hardee’s or maybe a pizza. They will stay two towns away as it’s the closest motel, one with a pool for the kids. They will drive through the towns that defined the phrase, “nothing to do”. Small towns of no more than 500 people and a post office. And before they leave, G’ma will give my sister a box or two filled with items that she wants us to have. Some items of no consequence at all, but tucked unnoticeably inside will be something precious. Last year, we found the wedding bands of my g’ma and her mother both, tucked inside a little handbag. Slowly, she gives us her life’s mementos. And we treasure every part.
I miss her today. I miss the way my granddad smiles when George does something mischievous. I will miss talking with my uncle, the only child left of three, the one who maybe said three words to me as a child and now will talk on and on. I miss the three great-grandchildren going outside to sweep off the porch, doing the little things they know how to do to help out.
I will even miss George’s water bottle, filled with orange cracker backwash.
Today I am homesick.
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