Childhood reflections always take me back to my grandma’s house. This was my dad’s mom, they called her Jo-Jo. She was plump and stout, a bit grumpy with a loud voice, and a big square jawline to match the sturdy frame of her grand home made of bricks in Brooklyn… Park Slope, I am told, where she lived.
As a tiny girl, Grandma’s house dwarfed me. The bigness of everything on our trip from central Jersey to the city kept me in a state of eager anticipation the whole way in. My dad, driving us over what I thought held doorways to heaven… the majestic Verrazano Bridge with its sweeping suspension lines that stretched from the clouds all the way down to the water, as we passed through mist-covered arches to what surely must be God’s home up in the sky.
Clutching my tiny hand to the big, trusted grownup hands of my parents, my little legs struggled to clear the big, stone steps of Grandma’s front porch…. Buster Brown shoes clacking away. Clap, clap, against marble floors in the great hallway… and we were here!
Kippy, Grandma’s beagle who stood shin-high, would soon shout a frenzied welcome, her barks amplified into a big-dog annoucement of our arrival thanks to those high ceilings. Through the big heavy door, passing by to gaze up the heavy steps that led to Uncle Tony and Aunt Sadie’s, with their booming voices and strange manner of speaking that was hard to understand and a little scary.
Grandma’s house was a place of comfort and order, where my childhood imaginings could thrive quietly amidst the background noise of adult conversation. Tidy but not pristine, as it was a bit hard for Grandma to move. Musty carpets, clean-swept linoleum with a slight residue of Sunday dinners past, and always the aroma of frying meatballs mixed with lingering odors from the gas stove.
Everything about Grandma’s house was big and solid, like her. The sturdy white stove with its loud, whirring exhaust fan. The big, white ceramic sink with attached drainboard; and only ever one or two dishes placed on it, with the signature Corel pattern that brings back memories of every Grandma, Nonna, Granny or Nana. The clanging of metal spoons against ceramic pots and pans… a cauldron of red sauce bubbling over gas burners with their blue-tinged flames dancing merrily away. A big white pot with a black mark, why was that mark there?! What does that fan do and where does it go?
My imaginings took shape in Grandma’s living room, where her carefully placed trinkets of heavy glass became my playthings (I was told to always put everything back exactly where it belonged, and I did.) A coffee table of thick, dark wood; the candy dish that held peanut M&Ms. This was the scene that became my house-playing game for one.
Even more grand was Grandma’s bedroom, where the mystery of a long-gone Grandpa whom I had never met, remained. A black-and-white framed photo montage of my dad as a boy, with curly blonde hair, wearing different expressions, how curious! (In a year or so, I would have a baby brother with the exact same face as this).
Grandma’s bed with its white starched chenille cover smoothed neatly into place over a rise of pillows… and her heavy, mahogany furniture with big, deep drawers and curved drawer fronts. Whiffs of rose and sandalwood from grandma’s embroidered cotton handkerchiefs, folded neatly in the top drawer. Grandma’s room occupied the front of the house, with drape-covered windows overlooking the bustling city streets… sounds of cars going by and the occasional siren.
One spot of Grandma’s house that gave me a mix of curiosity and a little tinge of fear, was her bathroom. The cold pink and black tiles, the toilet with its loud, roaring flush that sucked the water down and away into New York City’s sewer pipes. That toilet, a struggle to climb, and having to clutch the sides with my little hands, to keep from falling in. A bit of a challenge for a tot of my miniscue proportions; but I did manage to marvel at the pinkness of this big room with everything so icy to the touch, and the sink knobs that were hard for my little hands to turn and get water to rush out.
Out in the yard, there was more bigness to exclaim over. Through the creaky metal gate and down the path of sidewalk squares, I could disappear into a sea of purple petunias, so high that I was nearly swimming in them, or so it seemed. The outside city sounds… loud to my little ears, and those big heavy steps that I could clamber up and down, in the hope that someone would let Kippy out to play.
Sometimes old Italian people who I didn’t really know that well would visit, talking animatedly in their loud voices with the strange pronunciation of some words. They were strangers who would pinch my cheeks too hard and ask for hugs which I wasn’t sure about. But they brought horn-shaped cookies flavored like almonds that melted in my mouth, so I made sure to follow them into the kitchen and linger in the general area in case more cookies would be offered.
Finally… the telephone stand, made of sturdy wood, stationed like a sentinel in grandma’s connecting hallway from the kitchen to the parlour. Only two items set there… the phone itself; a black rotary that swished delightfully if I managed to get my tiny fingers to work the dial, and a thick yellow phone book on the shelf below. Who was on the other end of the line?… oh, Santa Claus!! We were going to call him, you could ring up Santa any time of year but only from Grandma’s house. His phone number was 212 976 3636, as told by the friendly messengers from the North Pole that I heard on the radio.
Grandma was solid, with a deep voice, thick jawline; slow-moving, steady and predictable. She liked things just so. She always said the same things. “Ma, how are you feeling?” “Mens-a-mens!” A drawer in the kitchen held her playing cards, Benson and Hedges cigarettes that she puffed but did not inhale; reading glasses on a chain, how fancy! and packs of green, Dentyne gum that I would ask for permission to have after the dishes were washed and put away, and Uncle Tony had finished peeling oranges and cracking walnuts signaling the end of the big feast she had just spend her whole day cooking for us.
Now that I’m approaching the age that my Grandma was at this phase of my childhood, I think a lot about her house, which was a part of her. It was the solid, well-built kind of house that I love, with good bones, thick walls, and big, glass-paned windows. The exterior of Grandma’s house made it stand out from the cluster of red-bricked buildings that was this section of Brooklyn. At this tender age, I knew we had arrived at Grandma’s once I had spotted the unique pattern of bricks – not red, but gray, with a kind of herringbone pattern, that I sometimes see every once in a while passing through a city, and which always takes me back to that precious, awe-filled time, when I was tiny and precocious; and everything was a big, marvelous adventure.
My Grandma’s house is no longer in the family, and this saddens me, because this kind of house is everything that I love. Not fancy, not complicated; but a simple, well-appointed, well-organized inside space… well-constructed using durable, materials. My grandma’s home was built with care, stood proudly and was meant to last. And like many other homes in that part of Brooklyn, it eventually changed hands, and was stripped of all its best features… the character, the well-built inner construction that marked its grandeur.
And now my Grandma’s old house is worth millions of dollars, set in a sought-after spot on the map. But do I care about that? No. If I could… I would take back Grandma’s house just the way it was, just how it stood in all of its greatness and simplicity, and I would keep it to have until it my time to pass it along.
The things that humans build with their hands, using earth-sourced materials… these ground us in reality, literally… born from rock, standing solid like rock. Lives pass, time marches on… but the structures built by man and machine remain standing… with memories etched into the cracks of the walls… whispers of the past known only to those great old bones of a well-lived and well-loved home.
These great, sturdy buildings that housed past generations of family members, with faces that smile back with the same smiles as ours, from black and white photo albums with tattered edges, and stubborn resolve set at the jawline and the corners of the eyes… the people whose genetics hard-wire our hearts and souls… these may pass away in body, but their spirit carries on, fused in by the solidity of these grand, old homes.
And what will come after, once these remarkable structures are torn down and bulldozed away?
Does anyone care?
Dina Gio works as a freelance writer, website maker and internet marketer. Contact her via the contact page up top for your next project today.