No Place Like Grandma's House

by Yolanda Falcon

When my grandmother came to visit us, she constantly complained about the traffic, pollution, and the high cost of living in Houston. In her opinion, life in the city was just too busy. Most of all, she disliked our house because we had central air conditioning and heat -- which meant there were no open windows for her to sit by.

On the other hand, our trips to see her in her hometown of Woodsboro, Texas, were a real back-to-the-basics experience; rough, and humbling.

She lived one block east of the town square -- directly across from Mr. Bill's Texaco. Since she didn't have a telephone, that is where we would call to check on her and to leave messages. The gas station attendants there didnąt seem to mind being Grandma's personal answering service. I guess that must have been one of the advantages of living in a small close-knit community.

Her three-room shotgun house was repainted in basic white, year after year. Yet we never knew what color the house trim would be from one visit to the next. Sometimes, with leftover paint, she painted the door and window frames canary yellow, peacock blue, or Christmas green, like her "talking" parakeet, Rudy. Actually, the only word I ever heard him say was "pretty." Nevertheless, Grandma claimed Rudy had a wide vocabulary.

Regardless of the season, a window in each room remained open at all times, allowing her pristine lace curtains to take flight with the whispering breeze. The red vinyl rocking chair had its place near a window. She always said that feeling nature's fresh air was like being in God's almighty presence. I now understand that air conditioning was just too confining to her spirit. However, that's where the word "rough" came to mind, especially during my summertime visits.

During winter, the gas heater was used only when she had visitors, for she feared being trapped alone in a fire.

In the front room, which served as both living room and guest bedroom, is where I slept when I stayed there. In the early morning hours, streaks of sunlight peered through the bare-board walls, illuminating the meekly framed family portraits and religious icons, as if to spotlight their importance. Most intriguing was the picture of Jesus with a crown of thorns whose eyes appeared to open and close when stared upon.

Grandma was as plain as her house. She thought wearing makeup was a waste of time and "poison" to the skin. Yet her dresser with its square beveled mirror reflected a subtle hint of vanity. On display was a bottle of Jergen's lotion, talcum powder, hairpins, a rhinestone tortoise shell hair-comb, a jelly jar filled with cotton balls, and a trinket box containing odd pieces of costume jewelry that she never wore.

In her bedroom, she kept a towering stack of meticulously folded quilts and blankets near an old bureau. Her dresses hung catty-cornered on a broomstick nailed to the wall. Over her clothes lay a thinly worn sheet, shrouding her best attire. I was amazed that her house could be so tidy without the presence of a closet.

Occasionally, I invited a friend along when I went to visit her for the weekend. With a single glare from Grandma, they quickly learned about her unspoken house rules -- no running, no slamming doors, no sitting on the beds, no snooping, and not too much giggling. And never, never make a mess. She especially frowned upon those who sat on her chenille-covered iron beds, which squeaked with the slightest touch as if intentionally to sound an alarm. My friends often asked me, "Are we allowed to have fun?" Yet they always jumped at the chance to go see her, because at night we would listen to her tell ghost stories.

The third, and perhaps most unusual, room in the house was Grandma's kitchen. Beside the refrigerator and stove, a washboard hung on the wall near the back door. Next to the kitchen cabinets stood a narrow closet-like structure with a shower curtain for a door. Few would have guessed that that was where the plumber installed her shimmering white porcelain toilet the day she retired the outhouse. (Considering its more private location, I thought the outhouse had its advantages.) That was the last of the modern-day conveniences she added.

Recalling how content she seemed in her simple surroundings makes me realize that regardless of where you live, your house is your kingdom.

As a final farewell, the hearse stopped momentarily in front of Grandma's shotgun palace on the day of her funeral.

Yolanda Falcon, who considers herself a writer under construction, has had an essay published in the Houston Chronicle and a short story in last year's anthology Suddenly IV.