Precious Memories

I grew up in a small town in upstate NY.  I like to look at the expression on people’s faces when I tell them that.  “You don’t sound like your from NY,” most people say as they are somewhat taken back by my comment.    NY seems so vastly different than NC in the minds of most people.  When I say NY they immediately start thinking about subways and skyscrapers, but that is not the NY I remember.  The NY I remember was a very simple place. 

My father grew up on a dairy farm in Broom County and when I was a small child my grandfather still lived out on that farm.  I think my fondest memories as a child are somehow attached to that old farmhouse. It brings me back to a place that fewer and fewer people can relate to these days.

Coming into the house, you pushed back the screen door and found yourself standing on the back porch.  Immediately you were reminded as to why the screen door was needed.  Hanging from the ceiling was a yellowish-brown tape with a cardboard tube dangling from its bottom.  Many a fly met its maker on that contraption.  Those who survived the fly tape met their doom as my grandfather entertained himself by teaching me the proper use of a fly swat.   The little dark spots on the wall that stood where a fly once dwelt, were like “notches on my gun.”

To the right stood a reminder of the recent past – an ice box, not long retired, patiently awaiting the day its replacement, the Kalvinator, would prove to be a only passing fad.  As you entered the kitchen, a pot bellied stove and a “wood box” were the first to greet you.  I loved helping Grandpa split wood.  I would spend hours upon hours out back in the woodshed splitting and then carrying wood by the arm load down the hill to fill that box. 

I never felt so good as I did when my grandfather would lift the lid on the wood box and brag on me by telling how I could “do more work than any two men he had ever known.”  I was only eight, but to this day I believe he meant every word he said, and he said a lot of words.  Some of those words would not please my mother as much when I repeated them to her, but “that’s ok, moms don’t understand that kinda stuff,” Grandpa would say.    Then he would laugh.  I loved to hear him laugh. 

The kitchen table was 1950’s new.  4 stainless steel chairs with bright yellow vinyl seat covers surrounded a stainless steel table with a yellow Formica top.  I remember that table having more stainless and chrome than a 58 Impala.   Dangling directly over that table was a little white string with a little steel bell on the end.  I would stand on top of the chair and pull the string.  A slowly increasing glow would begin as the round florescent light fixture would start to hum out its illumination.  

On my Grandmother’s Formica countertops sat a huge Kitchen Aid mixer and a one - gallon tub of Crisco shortening.  A sheet of wax paper and a rolling pin lay underneath a heavy layer of freshly sifted flour.  A fresh batch of sugar cookies was in the oven. 

Lying on the counter beside the cast iron sink was a half-used bar of Lava soap in a rubber soap dish.  I remember washing up for dinner with that Lava soap.  I hated that stuff.  It may have done a great Job at washing the barn off old farmers, but it took the hide off little boys.  I never complained though.  I didn’t want my grandfather to think I was any less than “twice the man he ever knew.” 

In the corner of the dinning room sat my Grandmother’s big, black, Singer sewing machine.  A yard or two of cloth lay over the shoulder of the armless manikin that was dressed with paper patterns and pins.

My least favorite room in the house was the living room.  It was there that we would sit and do nothing.  I mean nothing, absolutely NOTHING.  I couldn’t stay there long.  So I would go and explore. 

I would entertain myself by swinging on the tire swing that hung from one of the two giant maple trees in the front yard.  I would rummage through the tool shed, and explore the attics and barns.  I would play in the hayloft and wander through the barn.  It doesn’t get any better than that.

In the winter, before we would go to sleep, my grandfather would stoke the fire in the pot bellied stove and get it so hot in the kitchen that you could hardly breathe in there.  Then, up the stairs we would go.

Upstairs in that house were three bedrooms.  Mine had two single beds with heavy feather mattresses.  Layers upon layers of blankets would be peeled back and I would crawl into the bed that would keep me safe and warm for the next eight hours.  I used to love to feel the weight of those blankets against my little body.  The pillows were made out of a blue and white, stripped cotton material stuffed with feathers.  Nothing felt so good as to lay my head on that pillow at night.  Even the occasional discomfort of rolling over onto a feather that had managed to poke its wrong end through the fabric didn’t seem to bother me.  I don’t think I have had a descent night’s sleep since the last time I laid down in that bed. 

These are memories.  Good memories.  Memories I will always cherish.  As you read these memories of mine, some of you could relate.  You could smell the wood burning in the stove and the sugar cookies baking in the oven.  You remember the hum of the florescent light fixture and the intermittent sound of the Singer sewing machine.  You remember crawling into a cold bed at night and dreading to crawl out of a warm bed in the morning.  Memories are precious. 

We must remember that not every reader of my memories can relate.  Some have no idea of what it feels like to live how I have just described.  Some might say that is a sad thing.  I’ve come to a different conclusion.  I believe memories are relative.  The things that we hold dear are not the things that trigger our memories but the people we share our memories with.  We attach significance to things and places because they are how we trigger our memories, but the true value is not in the screen doors and firewood.  The true value is in who walked through those doors and kept us warm. 

A younger generation may not remember the places and things we remember, but their memories can be the same, if we are willing to keep them safe and warm.

Love ya, Grandpa,

Keith