We drove past the former home of my paternal grandparents last week. We found the place on Arlington Street in the Houston Heights neighborhood even though I was no longer able recall what their address had once been. The place has held up well given that it is well over eighty years old. My grandfather built it with his own hands and it stands out as being very different from the other houses nearby. My grandfather was a lather by profession so of course he built his home with a stucco facade.
Supposedly stucco does not hold up well in the Houston heat with the ever moving foundations that cause crumbling and cracks but somehow that place looks as sturdy as it did on the day I was born in 1948. Back then the stucco was painted white and the most outstanding feature of the house was the screened in front porch that ran all the way across the front. My grandmother created an enchanted exterior with her green thumb and the seasonal flowers that kept a riot of color blooming almost all year long.
My mother has a photo of me in front of that house on the occasion of my first communion. As luck would have it white Easter lilies stretched from one side of the garden to the other. It was such a lovely sight that passers by often slowed their paces just to admire the glory of what Grandma had created. My mother rightfully saw that it made a lovely backdrop for me in my white communion dress complete with a little veil. I solemnly hold a prayer book in my folded hands and I look as though I truly understood the solemnity of the occasion.
Now the house is painted a dark grey which is actually quite attractive and makes the house look as though it might have been built by a talented and artistic architect. The flowers are gone but it is apparent that the house is loved as much as my grandparents cared for it back in the day.
I really enjoyed visiting my grandparents there especially in the fall when leaves were falling in the ditches in front of the homes. The neighbors spent Sundays burning them to keep their lawns tidy. I can still imagine the perfume of those burning leaves on a chilly afternoon when we went to visit. The neighbors would wave and smile and because nobody had air conditioning back then I was able to hear the people living life inside their homes. There was a lovely cadence that enlivened the area and made me feel rather comfortable just listening to the sounds of everyday life. The people created a kind of symphony that was lovely and relaxing.
My grandmother always prepared one of her famous dinners for us when we visited and the aroma of her fried chicken, gravy, biscuits and homegrown vegetables wafted into the air joining the other pleasant smells that seemed to warm the whole area. Her food created a symphony of the senses that sometime drew neighbors to show up right around the time that her food was ready to eat. She almost always invited them to stay and few ever turned own her offer.
While Grandma cooked I had the privilege of setting the table, a formal event in which I learned how to properly position the china plates and the silverware on the starched and pressed linen tablecloth. It was a ritual that made me feel as though I was grown rather than a six year old little girl. I would open the wooden box that was lined with felt and carefully remove the forks and knives and spoons. I can still see the room and feel the flush of pride as I partook in the ritual of creating an inviting presentation.
While the women were preparing the meal my father and grandfather sat on the screened porch and spoke of what sounded like important matters. Of course Grandpa puffed on one of his pipes filling the air with the sweet smell of tobacco. I saw that he was a handsome man even as a young girl. His long tapered fingers were those of a craftsman who took his work building things very seriously. Unlike my grandmother he was able to read and write and almost always had much to share about the latest book that he was devouring.
I suppose that in my mind my father’s parents were the quintessential grandparents. They could have stepped right out of central casting in a Hollywood movie. While my grandfather seemed bigger than life, my grandmother was so easy to be around. She was a tiny woman not more than about four foot nine. I doubt she ever weighed a hundred pounds. She was thin but hearty with more energy than I have ever witnessed in a woman in her eighties. I learned one day when I was snooping in her bathroom that she dyed her hair and I saw bobby-pins and curlers that she used to create her short bob. She wore plain cotton dresses with few adornments but always seemed to have clip on earrings hanging from her lobes. She smelled of clean and simple soap and her hands were wrinkled and crooked from the arthritis that she insisted on calling “rheumatis” She predicted what would lead to her own demise when she advised me that everyone in her family died from “gut trouble. Sure enough she ended her life with colon cancer and I have taken medication daily for years for my GERD.
Grandpa was so strong and had such a commanding presence that I simply felt in awe of him. He seemed to be formally dressed even when he was doing heavy labor inside or outside his house. He kept his shirt neatly tucked into his pressed pants which were always secured by a belt. He wore dress boots that tied like the old fashioned shoes of another era. Those boots gleamed with the polish that he meticulously used. He had only a tiny ring of hair on his bald head so he rarely left the house without donning a hat, straw in the summer and fedora the rest of the year. He spoke with an authority on so many subjects and I never grew tired of hearing the stories of his childhood and his travels across the United States.
It made me feel wonderful to see my grandparents house looking as though the present owners truly care for it. I thought back to the glorious times I spent there and found myself imagining how lovely it would be to have the opportunity of telling them the story of the original owners. I have a feeling that they would like knowing how much love grew the walls of the place where they now live.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 