My memories of my grandmother are spotty. Afternoons wedged between the sofa back and my grandmothers body with my head laying on her stomach we watched As The World Turns until we both fell asleep. I remember the gurgles and strange noices that used to come from that stomach with my head resting on it. It was the sounds I drifted off to sleep with.
Walks taken from the house to the bricked in against the hill water well thing where the huge faded gold and old goldfish swam from corner to corner and would surface to the bits of bread I would toss in to them; another memory that connects not to a destination. Maybe we were walking to the barn to feed animals or to collect eggs from the henhouse? If we did those things, I do not remember. I do remember listening to her tiny feet and the sound they made on the thinly graveled road, most of the gravel having sunk into the muddy road at one time.
Then there were the days watching her cook whatever she collected from the garden. The garden was on a road in the opposite direction of the fish pond container. It wound around the hill and it was a steep climb to the top of that hill where the garden contained a mouth watering assortment of fresh vegetables. Rows of green beans, corn and peas for the picking, fresh from the earth to the plate; grandmother served nothing from a can.
Memories of my grandparents flutter around in my brain triggered by a sight or a smell to bring up a memory that had been tucked away and waiting to spring though my memory veil.
The feather tick mattress on grandmother's bed looked like a huge cloud settled from bed rail to bed rail. It was fluffed up each morning by my Nana and I was cautioned to only mash down my side of this airy treat when bedtime was due. She liked to climb into her fluffy side of the bed and do her own mashing of the feathers.
When I think back to my wonderful grandparents, I think of Papa who loved to tease the little ones and Nana who I don't remember ever scolding or raising her voice to me. She was my summer retreat. My escape to indulgence during the summer and I loved staying with her.
I miss her. At times the missing is painful. As an adult, I would love to sit and have adult conversations with these wonderful people who were a part of my early years. I love you Nana and Papa. I shall always miss you both. Happy Birthday Nana.