My Grandma and Grandpap Rugg lived just one mile down the road from us. Except for an occasional vacation or stay at band camp, there was hardly ever a few days that passed without a visit to their home. Looking back the house was tiny but as a kid it never felt that way. It was a sanctuary, a place to celebrate and often the place to which we escaped.
I was 4 years old the first time I spent the night there. I can vividly remember being asked if I wanted to stay and then chickening out at the last minute only to realize at 10:00 at night that all I needed in the whole world was to be at Grandmas. My mom gave in and drove me down. From that night on, I knew Grandma’s was a special place.
The house was a simple story and a half that sat on a stone basement in front of their barn and small farm. The exterior was red siding and the first floor had a built in front porch, an eat in kitchen, living room, bathroom, and my Grandma’s bedroom. My Grandpap slept in one of the two rooms upstairs.
Each room of the house was filled with a collection of miss-matched furniture and my Grandma’s treasures highlighted by her huge collection of bird figurines.
The front porch was typically too cluttered to use for anything but a catch all of everything. From the porch you stepped through a sliding glass door into the kitchen. You were welcomed by my Grandma’s parakeets hanging in their cage singing a welcoming tune.
The kitchen table too was typically a catch all often stacked with old mail, my Grandpap’s pipe supplies, the milk straining bucket and cloth, a butter dish, bread bags and several other goodies. My Grandpap sat at the head of the table facing the sliding glass door. My Grandma always sat to his right where she could look out at the front of the house and watch her birds dine at one of the three or four bird feeders. Behind the table was a stand for the coffee pot an essential staple of my Grandma’s kitchen.
Grandma’s kitchen housed only two built in cabinets. One cabinet held the sink and one was mounted to the wall above for a few of her dishes, glasses and coffee cups. There were two stoves in the kitchen, both gas. One worked and the other collected an assortment of clutter. Grandma’s dishes, food, and kitchen tools were housed in several freestanding white metal cabinets. In them you would find mismatched glasses and plates well worn with each day’s wash and tender care.
It was normal to find my Grandma in the kitchen. She prepared three meals a day for my Pap. When I was younger, I can remember her baking her own bread and huge Sunday dinners of chicken and noodles made from scratch with the chicken often being raised on the farm. People loved my Grandma’s noodles. They were thick and doughy made from her hands to perfection.
The kitchen always smelled like heaven, or at least what I hope heaven smells like. It was a combination of fresh frying bacon, coffee, warm bread, pancakes and my Grandpap’s Prince Albert pipe tobacco smoke. Often an individual scent will bring back the memories but it was the combination of all that really was Grandma’s house. Today, I would pay a million dollars to be able to smell that perfect combination and even more to have just one more day in that house with Grandma and Pap.
