Dusty Memories

Laura Delp

Upon entering my grandma's house, the screen door with broken hinges immediately slaps me in the back. Bells hanging from a leather strip announce my arrival, and I'm immediately assaulted by the odor of fried food, ceiling mold, home perm solution, and dust that makes my eyes water. Grandma has the opinion that "anybody with a spotless house has too much time on their hands." Judging from the house, she is a busy person.

Three sofas, or davenports as she calls them, are placed haphazardly around the room surrounded by recliners and a scratched wooden rocking chair. One sofa, in the process of being recovered, shows stuffing and wood. A scruffy cat retreats to the kitchen at the sight of a visitor. To the right of the front door, three sets of handprints are mounted on the wall. Red and white snowflake fabric outlines my six-year-old hand. At the top of the paper plate stands the date written in red magic marker ö 1977. Two other small hands are cross-stitched in green ö Alan and Gregory 1978. Cobwebs hang down over the children's hands.

Family pictures clutter walls and the tops of a piano and organ. Looking at the pictures is like seeing a photo-documentary of hairstyles and fashion spanning forty years. My mother's senior picture stands next to my aunt's pictures ö all wear horn-rimmed glasses and have short curly hair as was fashionable in the 1960's. Wedding pictures show brides with long straight center parted hair and grooms with pointed collars in garish colors.

Particleboard bookshelves, with yellowing books, line the wall next to the organ. A spider plant drapes over the books, signs of watering fading the wood beneath. Memories of my grandfather exist in pictures and cross-stitch sayings such as "If all else fails, ask Grandpa." His favorite poem, "Crossing the Bar" is framed in the dining room.

At the sight of a visitor, Grandma will turn down the blaring T.V. She usually is sitting in a recliner, a crocheted multi-colored afghan covering her lap, and is working on a craft project, usually knitting. An insulated 32-ounce convenience store mug filled with Diet Pepsi stands nearby atop stacks of crossword puzzle books. Her walker is always within reach.

I spend little time at Grandma's house, now, and often feel guilty that I don't make the trip to Marcola more often. When I was in elementary school, my family would often drive there for Sunday dinner. We would always eat a variation of the same dinner, centering around fried chicken. Ernie would say a prayer, his dentures clicking as he gave thanks for the food and everyone's health. My brother, Richard, and cousin, Alan, would heap mounds of mashed potatoes on their plates, as I eyed the green salad, really just iceberg lettuce swimming in homemade dressing made with mayonnaise and sugar. Dinner always ended with homemade cake and ice cream. Later, my Great-Aunt Irene would fall asleep, snoring in a recliner, while others repeated the same conversation that was repeated at every family gathering ö talk of cats, relatives, children, recipes, and crafts.

Grandma doesn't do large Sunday dinners anymore. The grandchildren have grown up and are too busy with their lives, and age is slowly working its way through her body. Her white hair has thinned to show her scalp, the shocking pink lipstick and blush makes a stark contrast to her white translucent skin. She used to be taller than me, 5'7", but a fractured hip and refusal to see a doctor left her walking with her torso at a 45-degree angle. One knee has arthritis; the other kneecap was shattered in a car accident.

Despite the challenges, she refuses to accept that she can't do as much anymore. She's been spotted mowing her field with the riding lawn mower, clearing brush, and even has been caught on top of the roof checking for decay. Mentioning a nursing home or "assisted living facility" to her is not an option. I don't think they allow old women to repair their roofs and take care of the grounds.