A recent email has gotten me thinking and reminiscing a little bit. About what? Well...
I remember the house in bridgewater. A house thats held the same name for over 4 decades. I remember the long drive up the gravel driveway that ran beside the house. Anxious to see my Grandparents. I remember stepping out of the car and immediately enveloped by the scent of pine. I remember an awkward little traffic cone that sat in the middle of the backyard. I remember seeing deer in the backyard. Building snow forts in the backyard. I remember we never used the front door. Never. In fact, for the longest time I'm not sure I knew my grandparents had one. We always came in through the door by the garage. My Grandpa would scramble to punch in the alarm code while we squeezed by with our luggage.
I remember the den which seems to be where we spent most of our time. The rifle on the wood paneled wall. The antlers above the fire place and a little machine by the tv that just rewound vhs. I remember playing with my dad's gi joes and hess trucks on the furry area rug. Grandpa snoring in his recliner. I remember NIck at Night (we didn't have cable growing up) and getting up early to watch Nick jr.
I remember hearty breakfasts that would start with my sisters and I reluctantly eating a bowl of fruit my Grandmother had so selflessly prepared. I say reluctantly because we had to in order to get to the crumb cake and cornmeal muffins. Once we were done pushing our fruit around the bowl it was go time. I think breakfast might be my Grandfathers favorite meal. He always seemed to have such a commanding presence at the table. He sat in the same place every time. To his right sat the toaster oven and microwave. Directly in front of him sat the cutting board. And on this cutting board lay a slab of Hackensack, New Jersey's finest. The B&W Bakery's crumb cake in all its glory. We placed our orders with Grandpa. A buttered cornmeal muffin here. A slice of the crumb cake there. Grandpa was so fluid, so seasoned, so flawless. A true master.
After breakfast I remember spending hours in the basement. A mysterious accessory to us native texas kids but a common occurrence in the design of northeastern home. In the basement we were pool sharks or kings of ping pong. Table hockey junkies or just spectators. I remember the basement being divided somewhat naturally into a place to play and they place where the "monsters" lived. You would always turn right at the bottom of the stairs. A right turn led to the pool table. A turn left would lead you to the ill lit half of the basement scattered with bulky tools, shadows and inevitably monsters. I always tuned right. I remember there being a freezer down in the basement that stored the famous crumb cakes. I would always make it my responsibility to check the inventory of frozen cakes. Leaving the basement was always a rush. With the way the light switches were fixed you had to make sure all the lights were out except for one remaining light near the stairs. I remember switching one light off and then the next. The basement slowly disappearing into a damp dark void. Till one little bulb remained at the bottom of the stairs. Then I'd burst up the stairs as fast as I could so the monster couldn't catch me. Switch the last light off and close the door behind me.
I remember lying awake in bed christmas eve night. I was alone in what was once my uncle jim's childhood room. I remember getting up and tip toeing to the window. You had to tip toe at night because of those creaky wooden floors. I looked out the window. Snow. White flakes swirled in the flood light perched by the garage. So vivid against the black backdrop of the winter night sky. Tomorrow would be a white christmas.
I remember coming down the stairs on christmas day. The living room filled with family and presents. I remember tins of cookies and cabinets filled with candy bars. I remember a dining room table that some nights stretched into the living room. Surrounded by family. Reverend Bob would say grace.
I remember a forest that back my parents house. When I was little the forest went deep. There was no promise of return if we ventured out too far. The risk was always worth it. As I got older the forest grew smaller. I soon discovered that our exploring really only took us from one neighbors backyard to the next. Still it was nature. It was quiet. I remember going sledding down a hill my dad used to sled down when he was younger. I remember standing at the top of the hill and he would show me how far they used to be able to ride.
I remember catching lightning bugs. I remember having a toothbrush with my name on it. We all had toothbrushes with our names on them. I remember day trips to the city. All the bedrooms upstairs. Old photos of my parents, aunts and uncles. The house always felt so warm. As a grandparent's house should.
As I type this my Grandparents have now recently moved from the house in New Jersey to live closer to family in Massachusetts. Hence the long reminiscent blog on the house in bridgewater. I have nothing but good memories from that place. I am blessed to have had those experiences. It's sad to think I will probably never go back there and that the house will hold someone else's name. I hope their experiences there will be just as good as mine.
