Sweet Heritage

My grandmother's dining room table was a wondrous creation - a heavy, dark, ornate, carved, thick-legged monstrosity. There were five of us cousins, all girls. Grandma's table was our magic chamber. It was a cave, a castle, a rainy day haven for five giggly girls. From under its lace table cloth we would peek to find dragons or dinosaurs. It was here we would hide and wait for Grandpa's return...

From "up the shore," we'd see his yellow-slickered figure trudge... hip boots, slow steps, until he shed his gear in a rubbery heap on the porch, boots and all, to be washed down with a hose, then to the cellar door to be hung up and dried. With great, elaborate gestures, in stocking feet, he would try to find us in our hideout. Our wails of laughter, bigger than we were, would give us away.

Grandpa smelled of the sea. He was marvelous; a magic man, with a wind-worn face and wrinkled hands; a lobsterman by trade - but to five little girls a giant or a king!

The textures and smells of my grandparents' house were the pattern of my early childhood. Grandma was a round woman, short and full, dark-haired, large nosed, so different than my red-haired paleness. She was always busy in the kitchen; her presence filled the room. From her oven, even on the hottest days, came pastries pies, biscuits, cookies, all cooling on the sideboard, then off to the never empty, white-windowed pantry they'd go - tempting us on tiptoe to get a peek at the most delicious, aromatic treats.

Every afternoon, we would find my Grandpa in his chair, where a dainty china cup of ginger tea waited beside him, and an old hassock was home for his weary feet. I was there when the television came to live in my grandparents' home. All of us - cousins, uncles, aunts, and parents - squeezed into the parlor to watch the tiny screen in its huge, tall wooden box. It was a new-fangled wonder then. Grandpa, now quite comfortable after his long hard day, would watch The Edge of Night, his favorite, of course.

Dawn is when a fisherman's family's day begins. Grandpa would have a huge breakfast - biscuits, eggs, bacon and ham, pie and coffee, Grandma would be at the helm of this operation, bustling, creating wonderful smells, sights, and sounds. There would be bickering and a sprinkling of laughter. She would pack his lunch in a brown paper bag and fill his Thermos. Grandpa would be pulling on his boots, which seemed as big as one of my cousins; there before me would stand the figure of my Grandpa, snapping his suspenders, his slicker squeaking; a weathered, kind-faced, hard-working man, yellow-slickered, would then go down to the shore, whistling in the early morning sun.

I often go back to visit my grandparents in their house by the sea. They live there, my sweet heritage, in the quiet of my mind...