14 December 2008

there are places I remember all my life

I remember having all the cousins sleep on the floor in the living room, lining up our sleeping bags from wall to wall and giggling into the night. I remember making jewelry with cousins one summer and hiding under the picnic table with Anthony when it started to rain, as we still attempted to hawk our wares at the unsuspecting barber shop customers who bought from us just because we were cute. I remember receiving packages in the mail and imagining Grandmom and Grandpop lovingly crafting each one; Grandmom with her hot glue gun, asking Grandpop to sign stacks of cards she placed in front of him. I remember when Grandmom and Grandpop came out for graduations, summer trips, birthday surprises, arriving by plane or car, bringing lots of hugs, Tastykakes, and that certain perfume scent Grandmom carries with her. I remember Uncle Tom encouraging us to build bigger chocolate ice cream sundaes, with chocolate syrup and jimmies, laughing because there was no way we would ever finish them. I remember making Yum Yum and sitting out on the porches behind Gparents and U.Tom/A.Mary's houses, eating until our fingers got sticky and then running to the iron swingset in the yard. I remember wondering what was in the shed by the swingset, and examining the neat little rows of tomatoes in the garden, always helping to decide if they were ripe enough to pick. I remember sleeping in the attic, with the dark corners full of boxes and contact-paper-covered shelves lined with books and cooking magazines from years and years before I knew how to read. I remember the sliding glass door on the shower and Gmom and Gpop's, and how there was always a little book of word searches above the toilet, and how sometimes I would go in the bathroom just because I liked to look out the window into the parking lot and watch the world go by. I remember visiting the barbershop just to say hi to Grandpop and Uncle Tom, stealing pretzels out of the wooden pretzel box and sucking on the salt until my lips stung. I remember the Jersey shore, only vaguely, hot sand between tiny toes and matching puffy-paint t-shirts to be worn for years to come on the floor on Grandmom and Grandpop's house at those cousin-filled sleepovers. I remember "down the house," and how there was always a little bowl of black olives for me, and the basement was scary and the armchairs were uncomfortable, but there were huge bowls of pasta and lots of laughter to make up for it. I remember tasting wine at holiday dinners and actually liking it. I remember playing dress-up with cousins in the basement of U. Tom and A. Mary's house, swathing ourselves in crinoline, playing Ace of Base over and over whilst choreographing elaborate routines we would then perform for our poor mothers and fathers. I remember sitting on the steps at Grandmom and Grandpop's house, watching everyone sit around comfortably in those high-back wooden dining room chairs, talking easily after the bowls of pasta and homemade sauce were gone and put away, breathing in the comforting, familiar smell that always emanated from the carpet there. I remember making cookies and pasta and salad dressing and everything under the sun with Grandmom, her wrinkled hands still as sure as they ever were in the kitchen, guiding her grandchildren to learn the art of cooking as she once did. I remember playing Solitaire with Grandpop in the sunroom in Indiana and on the coffee table at their house in Lansdale and in hotel rooms and anywhere else we could find a flat surface and a deck of cards; we wouldn't even have to talk very much, we just played Solitaire over and over again in a soothing repetition. I remember sitting on the porch swing, and discovering the doors I always used at their houses were in fact the back doors, and the front ones faced the street and apparently never opened. I remember Pollyanna gift exchanges and endless photographs where Anthony wasn't smiling or Genevieve blinked or Noelle wouldn't stop wiggling because she was so small, so the parents lined up the old-fashioned film cameras and flashed away until someone decided there had to be a good one in there somewhere. I remember always saying good-bye, climbing into the back of the car or van, walking onto the plane, looking back every two seconds until I could no longer see them standing there waving tearfully. When my grandmother asked me to write down what I remembered from times with the family, I didn't think I could come up with anything but a few scattered stories, but apparently I can remember, and hold dearly, quite a bit more than I realized.

1 comment:

Ashley // Our Little Apartment said...

Black olives remind me of Grandma's, too.

Glad to see you're writing! :)