My maternal grandmother lived just down the road from my house--far enough
that it felt like an adventure when I pedaled my way under the cool canopy of
trees to her home, but short enough so that I could fully enjoy all the treats and
treasures she had for me when I arrived.
Yes, Nana's house was a goldmine for the childish heart. Bare feet on the couch
was never taboo, cookie jars crammed with snacks or cookies populated her pantry
shelves, and there was always a pitcher of lemonade sitting in the fridge, right beside
a container of mashed bananas mixed with peanut butter.
Sunday nights spent at my grandmother's house were wonderful, especially during the
summer. Arriving at her house after church services, there was the walk to vegetable garden.
I'd skip ahead, clad in the short set she'd made me, enjoying the feel of the cool grass beneath
my feet, the sound of the birds as they sang the sun to sleep, and the sweet fragrance of the
cedar trees in the back yard.Nana never tired of telling me the names of plants and their uses,
even though I asked enough times to make even June Cleaver take up drinking.
A huge tub of every kind of book a kid could want, in addition to boxes of crayons and
paper sat in readiness in her spare bedroom. Scribbled on napkins were treated as priceless works of
art, and were suspended by magnets on her refrigerator's door for all to see.
During the summers and on school vacations, I ate lunch with my grandmother and read books
aloud (Nana swore they were all nail biters) while she prepared lunch. Food of choice was fried chicken
and a can of Spaghetti-o's--my two favorite meals. I didn't know until years later that Nana sometimes
couldn't afford a whole yard bird on her tiny budget, and sometimes went without things she needed,
just so I could have my fried chicken.
Lessons were learned in that tiny kitchen--about life, believing in myself, and having passion about
everything I did. My grandmother was a firm believer in the latter, especially when cooking.
"When you cook with passion, you rarely go wrong," she'd say. "It makes a difference--people can
taste the love in every dish you prepare."
The little house, just a few minutes from my childhood home now sits dark and still. The garden,
once filled with bounty and care is overgrown. The walls, once ringing with childish laughter and a
grandmother's words of wisdom are now silent, no more than a faint memory, but a memory I keep
in my heart, and whose wisdom I pass on to my own children.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Before you go...
Please vote for my "Amelia Frump" over at
http://pertinentpromotions.weebly.com/childrens-books.html
I'm waxing sentimental again, but this is the first cover I've ever designed, and I'm a tad proud of it. :o)
that it felt like an adventure when I pedaled my way under the cool canopy of
trees to her home, but short enough so that I could fully enjoy all the treats and
treasures she had for me when I arrived.
Yes, Nana's house was a goldmine for the childish heart. Bare feet on the couch
was never taboo, cookie jars crammed with snacks or cookies populated her pantry
shelves, and there was always a pitcher of lemonade sitting in the fridge, right beside
a container of mashed bananas mixed with peanut butter.
Sunday nights spent at my grandmother's house were wonderful, especially during the
summer. Arriving at her house after church services, there was the walk to vegetable garden.
I'd skip ahead, clad in the short set she'd made me, enjoying the feel of the cool grass beneath
my feet, the sound of the birds as they sang the sun to sleep, and the sweet fragrance of the
cedar trees in the back yard.Nana never tired of telling me the names of plants and their uses,
even though I asked enough times to make even June Cleaver take up drinking.
A huge tub of every kind of book a kid could want, in addition to boxes of crayons and
paper sat in readiness in her spare bedroom. Scribbled on napkins were treated as priceless works of
art, and were suspended by magnets on her refrigerator's door for all to see.
During the summers and on school vacations, I ate lunch with my grandmother and read books
aloud (Nana swore they were all nail biters) while she prepared lunch. Food of choice was fried chicken
and a can of Spaghetti-o's--my two favorite meals. I didn't know until years later that Nana sometimes
couldn't afford a whole yard bird on her tiny budget, and sometimes went without things she needed,
just so I could have my fried chicken.
Lessons were learned in that tiny kitchen--about life, believing in myself, and having passion about
everything I did. My grandmother was a firm believer in the latter, especially when cooking.
"When you cook with passion, you rarely go wrong," she'd say. "It makes a difference--people can
taste the love in every dish you prepare."
The little house, just a few minutes from my childhood home now sits dark and still. The garden,
once filled with bounty and care is overgrown. The walls, once ringing with childish laughter and a
grandmother's words of wisdom are now silent, no more than a faint memory, but a memory I keep
in my heart, and whose wisdom I pass on to my own children.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Before you go...
Please vote for my "Amelia Frump" over at
http://pertinentpromotions.weebly.com/childrens-books.html
I'm waxing sentimental again, but this is the first cover I've ever designed, and I'm a tad proud of it. :o)
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