Comforting memories of Grandma’s house

Spending the night, I slept with Grandma in her big iron bed, covered up with quilts she made. I felt so safe. She was beautiful in my eyes. Always well kept, laced-up black shoes, cotton dress, nothing fancy.

I remember helping her gather eggs in the hen house and walking on plank sidewalks. Then Grandma fried up the eggs with sizzling bacon in a big iron skillet on the big iron cook stove. Biscuits in a pan, coffee in a pot, they all fill the house with pleasing aromas. The cook stove warmed the kitchen and the back bedroom. The potbelly stove in the living room warmed the room and the front bedroom.

I combed her hair as she sat in her rocking chair. We listened to music on the wind-up wooden Victrola that played 78s, and it was as tall as I and had louvers in front to control the sound. No TV. The radio would sing out gospel or country music. Under her bed was a big mason jar full of buttons. Shell, metal and colored glass, so shiny and sparkly.

I remember going outside, priming the pump, and bringing a bucket of fresh water for Grandma. She made me a pink skirt on her treadle sewing machine, and it became my favorite color. I would swing on the rope swing next to the little brook, trying to touch the sky with my toes higher and higher, and swinging from the long, weeping willow branches in her yard.

Mom bought her a gas stove, but she wouldn’t use it. She always used the cook stove. She finally got some plumbing in her house in her later years.

She loved the Lord, and her favorite hymn was “The Old Rugged Cross.” Each memory of Grandma is so precious and comforting.