To Grandmother's House We Go

As a young man, I was very fond of the time I was given with my grandparents. Our weekend family trips out into the expansive countryside gave me the chance to slow my life down. Scholastics and extracurricular activities seemed so distant to me; so unimportant. Here was a quiet sanctuary where a person could find inner serenity and let their stress simply melt away. Quiet conversations and dreamy afternoon naps often overtook the daily routine. Stress and anxiety slowly gave way to laughter and joy, and to me, my grandparent's house was a paradise.

The house's deep red wood plank siding stuck out rather oddly against its backdrop of tall, old-growth evergreens but it seemed as if everything was at peace here. A patch of thick green brush separated the main road from direct view of the house and everyone enjoyed the feeling of seclusion. At night, the wind would slowly bring in a light chill, but we were always able to keep it away as we huddled closely together around the fireplace. When it was sufficiently black outside due to the lack of overbearing city lights, the elders would narrate stories of fantastic encounters with unknown, wild creatures. Though I did not necessarily believe the stories, they prodded at my imagination and it was common for me to dream of similar events once I found sleep.

My grandfather would casually find his way out to his barn's woodworking shop where he would leisurely work on perfecting his techniques. There, as if by magic, he would sometimes emerge with a large grin, clutching his latest finished project. Though he was strong and vigorous well into retirement, his face was now full of folds of skin that had withstood the test of time. His hands, as dry and as rough as they looked, always seemed to flow effortlessly over the wood medium with mistakes few and far between. A figure of strength and perseverance, my grandfather stood tall and proud of what he had accomplished throughout his life.

As if voluntarily bound to her own kitchen, my grandmother, a stern but very feminine woman, would endlessly cook delicious meals throughout the day. The scent of warm muffins in the early morning or the sweet aroma of fresh baked cookies at night was enough to ensure I kept myself well fed. If I ever found myself behaving inappropriately, I reluctantly had to answer to my grandmother. Her soft, gentle exterior would crumble and she would take on the role of a less forgiving matriarch. Though small in stature and sweet in nature, you were rather unfortunate to find yourself on the receiving end of her discipline.

As our weekends would come to an end, we would pack the few belongings that we had taken with us back into the trunk of the car and we would then go on our way. Driving down the loose gravel driveway, I felt as if the world had come to a stop, but only for the weekend. Now, as we approached the S-curve in the driveway where a small stream freely flowed beneath, reality began to reemerge. We would come into view of the main road and I remember feeling disheartened as I watched the brush pass our car. When we finally pulled onto the main road's long straightaway, I would look back to catch one last glimpse of what I was leaving behind only to have my view obscured by the very brush that I had appreciated so much before. It was as if the house were there when I arrived, but then it would promptly disappear as soon as I departed.