Grandma's House

The other day my wife, Rhonda, and I invited some friends to our house. Some of them brought their kids with them, which was fine – I told them they could. I just wasn’t prepared for the all of the “touching my stuff,” that little kids do.

They were quite cute and reasonably well-behaved, but I became ruffled and restless as the evening wore on. I closed cabinet doors after they opened them, put things down when they had picked them up, asked them not to do this and please don’t do that. I just couldn’t enjoy myself, and I couldn’t help myself.

After they finally got tired and went back home to trash their own house, one of my friends told me I had been acting like “an old lady.” In my experience old men are generally pricklier than old women, so perhaps he was being kind in his criticism.

The two old ladies I knew best were my grandmothers. They wore glasses and had gray hair. Both of them sported the layered look in their kitchen – aprons over dresses. When they went out they usually wore hats decorated with netting, ribbons and jewelry. At the time it was considered fashionable.

Grandma O’Meara had a coat with two dead animals on the collar. They may have been foxes, or they could have been weasels, but whatever they were they always gave me quite a start when I bumped into them while playing in her large hall closet. I imagine C.S. Lewis might have had a grandmother who allowed him to play in her wardrobe.

Grandma O’Meara was a sturdy woman who had taught children their lessons in a one-room school house. Katie, as she was known to her friends, laughed, played games, enjoyed baseball, and always had time for her grandchildren.

Her home was like a giant playhouse. There I was free to use my imagination. Sometimes the second floor would become a ship, with the ground floor playing the part of the ocean; other times the upper floor was used along with the rest of the house in a game of hide and seek. The only rooms that were off limits were Grandma’s bedroom and her sewing room. But you were welcome to walk in if she was there.

Grandma Kucera’s home was not a playhouse, it was more like a rest home. Children were not allowed to roam freely. They were to sit quietly on the plastic covered couch and listen to the adult conversation.

After an eternity of sitting still a choice of activities was offered – escape to play in the yard, or entertain yourself with the box of worn-out, lifeless toys stored upstairs. But children weren’t allowed upstairs; not even just to get the box. That wasn’t permitted; the box would be brought down for them.

Grandma Kucera was known as the best cook in Le Sueur County. Emma, a name I learned after her death, was much more at home in her kitchen than playing house with her grandchildren.

My own children may, Lord willing, have children of their own someday, and I hope they bring them over to play house with me. I could read to them, maybe play a game of hide and seek.

Everyone’s got a favorite grandmother or grandfather, whether they are on your aunt or uncle’s side. Grandma O’Meara got older, but she never acted like an old lady. I have a lot to learn – I’m aging everyday, I just don’t want to become a crabby old man, and certainly not a cranky old lady. That would be weird.