We lost my beautiful grandma on the 16th of January 2011.
She lived 97 years. She was a walking ad for Oil of Olay. (If the Olay people would like to hook me up, that would be fantastic. Just sayin’)
Grandma and Grandpa owned a funeral home and lived in the apartment above it. When they retired they moved all the way across the street into a house. The only time any of us had ever been back in there was for Grandpa’s funeral in 1991.
My cousin arranged for us to be able to go back into that original home the house before Grandma’s funeral. Everything was smaller than we remembered, but it was the kitchen that brought the most memories.
In the corner was where Grandpa kept the “medicine” he gave us before bed at night. (aka one piece of candy corn). The countertop is where the noodles were rolled out, the TINY stove cooked the giant pots of noodles and mashed potatoes. Nothing decorative or fancy or pretty cabinet pulls. The women washed and dried all the dishes in there (hey, all the men were on the roof in the snow and wind adjusting the TV antenna, the kitchen was at least warm.) The smoke detector was on the outside of that wall – and when it went off, dinner was done.
We stood together looking in that tiny space, I remembered the warm security of a home full of yummy smells, crammed with toys, overflowing with people and joy and love.
Whether or not those times were ACTUALLY perfect isn’t the point, the memories are definitely perfect.
That kitchen was teeny and full of love. The bar is set high for my own little smaller home.