Wednesday, February 22, 2012

My Grandma Lives on a Mountain

I loved visiting my Grandma and Grandpa's place when I was young. They lived on a mountain next to Lake Isabella in California. Sometimes my parents would leave us there for a couple of  weeks during the summer. When my Grandma passed away I wrote this tribute to her and read it at the funeral. Those were good times.
My Grandma lives on a mountain,
where the poppies grow in the springtime
and a lake shimmers below.

We arrive late and knock forever
before she opens the door.
She greets us smiling with rollers in her hair
and her eyebrows missing.

As she tucks us into bed she whispers,
"Hotcakes in the morning."

Dawn breaks and dreams still linger;
the aroma of sausages fill the air.
Then coffee,
then hotcakes.

John Denver croons on the turntable,"Grandma's Feather Bed."
"It was six feet high 10 feet wide,
soft as a downy chick.
We didn't get a lot of sleep,
but we had a lot of fun on Grandma's feather bed."

After we've eaten so much food
our tummy's feel as if they'd burst,
we go out to the porch.
We take turns on the swing,
turning and turning,
then spinning and spinning
until the chain pops off and we crash.

Grandma comes out with her jump rope and starts skipping.
We watch her fire engine red toenails smack against the floor.
She tells us about the days she used to exercise at the gym after work.
We feel proud that Grandma was so independent.

Grandpa is raking the gravel in the yard.
After he has it perfect and goes to put away the rake,
we go and mess it up again.
He comes out and looks at us frustrated, but never says a word.

Grandma calls out, "Lunch!"
We think, "Already?"
We're still full!

After lunch, Grandpa goes to sit on the porch.
Grandma says, "Go play ping pong with Grandpa, he needs the exercise!"
So we take turns.
Grandpa lets us win, but we know he's the best ping pong player ever.
Grandma comes out to play with him, but he doesn't let her win.
They laugh.

We go inside and get Sally and Betsy
 and their clothes, Grandma made,
and play dolls.

We take them onto the porch and swing them in the swing,
that Grandpa fixed.
We play around Grandpa as he snores.
It's nap time.

Grandma shouts, "Dinner!"
Pork chops and applesauce
and Grandpa's impression of W.C. Fields.

Apple Cobbler.

We pick our heavy selves up and make it out to the porch.
(Unless it's "Dallas" night.)
As we sit there,
Grandma and Grandpa proudly tell us again,
"The boys built this porch."
Then our heads are filled with stories about the good ol' days.

These are ours.

We go inside.

Get in bed.

And Grandma whispers,
"Hotcakes in the morning."

Me, KB and Martha
Grandpa Pete, Grandma Ruby and The Redhead
My Dad and Mom
BugaCita and my Dad

1 comment:

Lisa R.D. said...

Your tribute brought a few tears... it was lovely!