Mary Ann Ellis
Every Sunday afternoon of my childhood we spent visiting relatives in the country—until my grandmother died that is. Funny how one person often holds a family together. Grandma and Grandpa lived in an old house of the shotgun style. In other words, one could stand at the front door and shoot straight down the wide hallway and out the back door of the kitchen. The front part of the house consisted of 4 bedrooms, but the front left room also served as a sitting room/parlor. This room held two beds, always neatly made with white chenille bedspreads with multicolored peacocks on them. In front of the fireplace waited two rocking chairs with cushions Grandma had made herself. The chairs awaited her leisure and that of a visitor. I don’t remember Grandpa ever sitting there. This was Grandma’s place of refuge.
Grandpa held sway on the front porch, even in the winter time. He’d don his old over coat and sit out there to talk manly topics with his male visitors. Rarely did the cold drive him inside. From the porch that stretched across the front of the house, he surveyed his kingdom. His dogs roamed the clean-swept yard and waited for whatever scraps the family threw out to them. These lean creatures hunted rabbits to supplement their diet. It never occurred to anyone that chicken or pork chop bones might be dangerous to them. Heartworms were unheard of. Dogs took their chances with health issues, but then so did humans. Such was life in the fifties. Doctor visits were rare for people and unheard of for dogs, at least my grandpa’s dogs.
The simple style of Grandpa’s house worked well for them and I loved the house. Sometimes when the cold weather allowed me to leave the fireplace, I’d roam about the house “plundering,” as my grandmother called it. I looked at and touched the deal knobs of the dresser, admiring the facets cut into each one. They shone like diamonds in the sunlight pouring through the windows. On overcast days they seemed to have an internal light all their own...
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