Monday, August 26, 2013

In The Terrace Kitchen

Gram presides over the simple terrace kitchen from her place at the table, the one closest to the sink.  She always expects you meet her there for a hug and you never let her down.  As soon as you sit adjacent she places her strong, weathered hand over yours, her freshly painted nails blazing against your youthful skin.  Her finger tips stick gently to the plastic table cloth as she releases to reach behind her for the fridge.  You want nothing but a tall syrupy glass of sweet tea and a tuna sandwich on white bread.  Gram has already mixed the tuna just the way you like and Pop has made the tea.  After all, they knew you and your family would be there.  It's Sunday morning after church.

Through the screen door and the layers of chain link, you watch a few kids playing in the alley.  They ride small bikes up and down the concrete, whizzing by the seven or eight row houses you can see while you eat.  You'll probably stay inside and play cards with Gram or any other cousins who may also come by.  Or you will go in the back by the washing machine.  They have no dryer here.  You'll set up the ten wooden pins for your sister to knock down.  She'll take aim from across six or so tiles of linoleum, cream and evergreen.  

The expansive canvas awning shades the kitchen all day, but it is hot and you go back for more tea.  Gram smiles while you sip it, happy to have you here where she always is.  Pop sits by the phone. You won't hear it ring, though you will hear him shout out, "hello."  The screen door up in the living room slams and random family descends.  It's fun to see who it will be, who this Sunday morning will bring, down the stairs into the terrace kitchen.

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Even today, my memory feels clear though it may soon fade away.  Pop will not live here much longer.  It's time to move on after 56 years.  45 with her, 11 without.  The last time I saw her in this kitchen it was a few days before I went back to school.  She got up from the table, walked to me on the stairs in long, white shorts, the kind she often wore.  She handed me an envelope with some money for books, maybe snacks, some cash for my final year.  I'd be back soon.  I'd see her on break.  

But I didn't.  She was gone. 
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Gram presides over the simple terrace kitchen from her place at the table, the one closest to the sink.  She always expects you meet her there for a hug and you never let her down.  

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This piece was somewhat inspired by a recent trip to visit my daughters' Grandma.  I hope to write a piece on that as well soon.  AND, I'm linking up with Yeah Write again, finally.  I've missed hanging out there.  Join me!  Click on the button below to read some fascinating writers, or better yet, post your own piece.


22 comments:

  1. Love this.... I really thought you were describing your recent trip and was wondering where your girls were in the story! As a grandmother, it is touching to see what you remember about your time with your grandparents. Thanks, I needed this.

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    1. Thank you Ruth. I love hearing how my writing touches others. Fun to see you here.

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  2. This is so lovely. I love this tribute to your grandmother. I also love the word "presides" in you first and last sentence. That reveals so much about her. Brilliant!

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    1. She was definitely the matriarch of our family. I think we all picture her there.

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  3. This is such a lovely memory. Growing up and moving on is the hardest thing, especially when it means that the people we love the most have to leave us.

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    1. I do miss her at times, but I think the reason I wrote this post was I spent so much time last week watching my girls with their Grandma. It's fascinating to try to guess what memories they will keep forever.

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  4. I love simple family traditions like this. Fabulous memories you have. Thank you for sharing.

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    1. It was so simple, really, but this ritual meant so much to me. I think it goes to show what really matters to children, in the end.

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  5. Lovely. Brought back memories of my own grandmother. Such exquisite details.

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    1. Thanks, Kirsten. I was hoping people would be able to put themselves in the terrace kitchen.

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  6. Gorgeous tribute to our Grandmother. Reminded me of my own Austrian grandma and how she presided over her kitchen, cooking and baking up the most amazing things. She died when I was seven and I never got the chance to have her teach me how to make all those recipes. Your post brought back fond memories and a bittersweet feeling. Well done. Great writing!

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    1. Thanks, Linda. I hope you meant to write "our grandmother." So much here resonates with others, I hope. My grandmother was also Eastern European. I wonder if there is something there. Bittersweet indeed.

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  7. Lovely tribute to your grandmother. I never had the opportunity to know my grandma like that but I would have loved it if our relationship was like that.

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  8. I like the description of your grandmother's hands, against your hand and the tablecloth. Nice images.

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  9. What a nice memory. You really make them both come alive - great description.

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  10. That's wonderful. I never knew my grandparents, since they all passed away before I was born. What wonderful memories those moments make for those that enjoy them.

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  11. That was a stunning piece of writing. This is my first time to your blog, but I can see why you have so many awards on your sidebar. That was just beautiful. It's so hard letting go of grandparents. Cherish the time you have left.

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  12. I think your use of second-person was well done. It gently encourages the reader to put herself in your shoes.

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  13. Such a great and vivid memory, really well written!

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  14. I adored the clarity of the memory; and of course I can't help but think of my own grandma.

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  15. I loved my gramma (Italian who cooked everything all the time) so very much, as my children loved thiers too. This is so touching. It is so difficult to Lise them but I have seen how their memories live on. Loved this!

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  16. Wow. This was expertly told! Just... wow.
    Great job!

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