Grandmother Walden’s House

By Becky Smith French

I remember the smell of my grandmother’s house. I’ve recognized the same essence in other old houses. I guess it’s just a whiff from the past that lingers in old wood-frame houses that have no air conditioning, where the owners leave the windows open to allow the breezes’ free-flowing movement. It’s a good aroma – a scent of life, of people going about their daily lives – living, loving, sharing with others the joy of life. A hint of coolness from the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains seems to mingle with the close warmth of the surrounding peach orchards as a gentle breeze lifts the fresh fragrance of the nearby evergreen hedges inside. I hear the cicadas chirruping their song of South Carolina summer. The polished wood floor feels smooth like glass as I slide along in sock feet to the library in Grandmother’s living room. Lining the wall, the many bookshelves provide an endless supply of old books.
An independent thinker, who exemplified “a true Southern lady”, my grandmother came to the area as a single woman with a master’s degree from New York City’s Columbia University, serving as county supervisor of schools. There, she met my grandfather, who persuaded her to share his charming life in the country. “Charming life in the country”, in those days, included living down a narrow road of red clay in a house with no electricity and no running water. Because Grandmother came from a refined background, many people were surprised at how well she flourished in the country. However, she calmly chose to subdue the primitive obstacles, providing her children with music lessons in town and with evenings at nearby university concerts. In these ways, she made life in the country seem fun and full of meaning for her children, my mom and her brother and sister, as they grew up. To build their home into a first-rate farm, coming out of the Depression, my grandmother worked right alongside my grandfather, both of them working at jobs in town, besides the responsibilities of supervising work done on the large farm. Always the educator, whether she was supervising teachers or teaching students or exhorting her grandchildren, my grandmother often encouraged us to read and provided the resources to ensure we did.
I choose a book and quickly leave the large, airy room, where every sound seems to fill the air with echoes. The Victorian chairs and sofa offer no haven for this tomboy. Instead, I take my book and climb into the high old-fashioned bed in the adjoining front bedroom to read during our afternoon rest time. The child, who once inhabited the room, moved out into the wide world long ago, and the room has lost its identification with children, leaving behind a somewhat sterile room, unused to the shenanigans of youngsters. Still, the massive bed offers a convenient retreat, where I can read and relax.
My older sisters, Lucy and Patti, have already ensconced themselves in the back bedroom. Too stuffy and musty-smelling for me, it is probably a storeroom when we aren’t around. The lumpy bed does not appeal to me. I guess my sisters like it because, off the back porch and away from all the other rooms, they can read for hours without being disturbed. Also, their isolated alcove makes it possible for them to leave on the lights and read well into the nights without being detected. They will finish stacks of books, before we return to Texas in a few weeks.
I won’t finish as many books as they do. I prefer the front bedroom, with its windows on the front and side wall that offer me a vantage point. From these windows, I can see whoever comes onto the front porch, or whoever slips into the side porch swing, or whoever might drive into the front drive or whatever else might signal activity in the household. I wouldn’t want to sacrifice participating in whatever else is going on, so that I might finish reading a book! I am always in favor of experiencing life, whatever it might offer, and I don’t want to miss a moment of it.
I am careful to rest quietly, because Mama has promised to take us swimming later in the afternoon if we do. As I read, I reflect on the morning spent in the wooded area behind the house where our cousins had rigged up a cable between two trees. We had spent several hours taking turns hanging onto a pulley and riding across from the higher side to the lower side. After that fun, we ran down to the barn and played in the hay. The pungent aroma of fresh-cut hay will always trigger memories of Grandmother’s barn. My grandmother hires a man to milk the cow every day, but she told him to let us give it a try. My fingers seemed like dough as I tried to manage a squirt of warm milk from the cow’s udder. The cow didn’t seem to appreciate my efforts, but she didn’t kick. After the hired man finished the chore, Grandmother offered us a taste of the warm liquid. I, having had no experience with fresh cream, couldn’t imagine it would taste very palatable and declined the offer. After we finished our milking, Grandmother returned to the house to fix dinner of buttered squash, fresh green beans, mashed potatoes and ham. There, dinner is served in the middle of the day. We returned to our pulley ride for a few more trips before we heard quaint tones of the small Chinese gong calling us to dinner.
Suddenly the cicadas cease their singing, and in the deafening silence, I am reminded I must be still too. I return to my reading, remembering how much I look forward to the special outing later in the afternoon – the all-important trip to the spring-fed lake, where our brave boy-cousins will jump from the high diving platform into the clear water below. We all look up to Bill, Bob and Steve, our handsome, “mature” cousins, who know all about camping from mountain hikes with their Boy Scout troop. They have invited us to “camp out” in Grandmother’s front yard tonight. Early in the evening, tiny flits of light will blink on and off before we can pinpoint the source, creating an illusion of magic fairies parading around the front yard. We will take Mason jars and try to lure the lightning bugs to enter, so they can provide soft magical lights for us to enjoy.
Afterwards, we will bed down on sleeping bags under the clear sky, waiting to “catch” a falling star. We will marvel at the wondrous sight of stars darting through space and will wonder what’s going on way out there. How will we ever let go of these marvels long enough to fall asleep? Though Patti will sleep through the night outside with our cousins, I will retreat before dawn to the safe comfort of the big bed in the front bedroom, where I will awaken refreshed and ready for new exploits.
Suddenly a Town and Country station wagon with wooden panels on the sides turns into the front driveway, bringing me back to the present. My book falls to the floor, as I realize we have received a reprieve from rest time and hurry to the back bedroom to call my sisters out of seclusion. Our cousins have arrived, and we can get up from our rest to begin our eagerly anticipated adventures.
First composed by Becky Smith French as part of the New Jersey Writing Project Symposium for Teachers at Jasper Junior High,Summer, 1998