Autumn Musings

Shalom, friends. It's been awhile.

These are just words, and I wish I could write in a manner so that you could experience this place, as I have, but my language continually fails to be adequate. Please accept my humble apologies for this meager description.

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I know that house in Indiana, second on the right down Dakota Drive. There was an old tree in the front yard, and in the autumn its leaves would blanket the lawn with orange and gold. Walking up the small strip of cement raised up between the lawn and the driveway, I remember the big window upstairs, where so many people have watched family's approach after the long 5-hour drive. I can feel the key in the door, that you could turn to ring the doorbell. I turned it just for fun every time. The white door swings wide, and there is my Grammie Penny, always the first one giving hugs and bringing us in. We enter on a landing, and have to go up the stairs to hug Grampa, whose clothes smell like his aftershave, year after year.

The floors used to be carpeted with deep blue shag, matching the walls and the lighthouse runner Grammie had put up. The house didn't belong in Indiana; its heart had always been with Grammie in Maine, with the loons and lighthouses, so she filled the place wtih both things; we even called it the Lighthouse, for that was their surname. There was a loon in a can, the loon lamp, the fish nets hanging over the stairs, the lamp made out of a ship's wheel, the blue carpet and white ceiling: sky above, sea below.

There was no carpet in the kitchen, just yellowed linoleum floors where my sister and I sat with Grampa and ate Oreos before bed. There were always Oreos, chocolate donuts, poptarts and peanut butter in the cupboards, and we drank our milk from Smurf glasses or cups made out of old jelly jars. The fridge was covered in pictures held up by strange magnets of family and friends, homework and drawings. Out the back door was their deck, which had originally been open to the air and smelled of old pine boards. Every bedroom was clean and neat, and the living room was comfortable but tidy.

Downstairs was a different story. Grampa lived down in the basement, and the whole area had become his domain. The stairway decorations were mostly dominated by the stark painting of Uncle Dion, hanging on the left, his wide eyes following you down each step. To the right was the TV room, furnished with plush recliners, beer cans, and the things of Alvin's childhood. Most of the time, that's where we could find him, stretched out in his chair, surfing between the match, the race, and COPS. To the left of this room was the fireplace, which was rarely used, and the bathroom that always smelled like Grampa. Finally, the back hallway was straight in front, with the washer and dryer on the right, and the fridge where he kept beer and soda separate from upstairs. There were no magnets on the fridge.

Farther back, past the heating pipes, was Grampa's gun room. He was a full member of the NRA, and would go out every now and then to the gun club outside of town to shoot his .38. This room was his shop, where he could clean and store guns, and the air in there smelled of black powder and gun oil. I used to reload shells with him, help him create his death-bullets.

His room was the farthest door back in the basement. It was a simple room: a bookshelf, a dresser, and a bed. As children, my cousins and I rarely went in there. His closet opened into the storage room, and we would dare each other to go in the room, simply so we could play Narnia, pushing through jackets and ties to enter a world of all the junk my grandparents couldn't throw out but didn't want on display.