Today's topic presented me with a unique problem: at the age of sixty-seven, memories are abundant. My problem was choosing one out of thousands; thank goodness Grandma Stevens came to mind.
I have lots of pictures of Grandma, but the first one that came up in a search on my computer was one of her standing by her house, near the door we walked through when we visited her. I looked no further.
Her house was the center of many holiday activities, a place that never seemed to change. A kid could count on it being the same year after year. In my mind I can still walk through that house: I can see Grandma rolling out noodles at the kitchen cabinet; or sitting in her rocking chair in the living room crocheting as she listened to "One Man's Family" on the radio; or writing letters to friends on a Sunday afternoon. I can see her upstairs at the quilt frame making beautiful quilts, one stitch at a time.
It wasn't a big house, so when all the uncles, aunts, and cousins gathered, it was jam-packed, but somehow there was enough room for everybody.
Five children were born and raised there. In my mother's story (on the sidebar with her picture), my mom mentions a preacher who came and stayed with them. He was a carpenter, so he helped my grandfather add the upstairs to the house. They would work on the house all day, then go to church each night and the preacher would preach.
Because my parents moved often, there was something very reassuring about Grandma's house being there, rock-solid, something I could count on to remain the same.