That remains my favorite Grandma story, but as I flipped through her book, others caught my eye, too.
One was a poem called “This Old House.”
The poem is about the 1910 farm house that my grandpa grew up in and my grandma and grandpa moved into after marrying. It’s where my dad grew up. It’s also where I grew up.
It was made out of wood, trees cut from the farm. It cost $850 for the six-room house. No luxuries were included – no water, not even a piece of furniture.
It wasn’t fancy, but over the years, it became a place where memories were made. That made it irreplaceable.
“The transom was used for a basketball goal,” my grandma wrote. “The window got broke. They missed the hole. Teeth got broken from those that would tease, from doors slammed open, you forgot to say please. The marks on the walls where crayons made their way, by little ones too small to obey. Paint and papering have covered the many kicks and scuffs, but if these walls could talk they would tell you more stuff.”
They might tell you about the operation that took place on the kitchen table to remove an appendix or about the milk cans my grandpa clanged to wake the boys up for milking.
I could go on and on with these stories, but, alas, there is no more room. Still, I wanted to share these snippets from my grandma’s collection.
These stories are a reminder of where I got my knack for writing.
So if you find yourself enjoying the stories I write, say a little thank you to Mary Ellen — or as I like to call her, Super Woman.
[friday editor] / granddaughter of Super Woman