Can We Go To Grandma's House?

My Grandparent's house in the Fifties.

My Grandparent's house on Ninth St in Highland, California holds more memories for me than any other dwelling in my lifetime.  They moved there in 1950, four years before I was born, after spending five years at the first home they moved into after driving to California from Missouri in July of 1946.

There were six people in the car including a baby, and my Great Grandma on that trip to California back in 1946. All of them slept in the car for the nights and cooked their meals on a camp stove beside the road. All of this making for a difficult journey on the historic Route 66 that Nate King Cole would soon sing about. 

Being July, it was particularly hot. They passed through Victorville, going over a bridge I can see from the neighborhood I now live in, with the then treacherous Cajon Pass just ahead of them. At the base of that pass was a welcoming and fertile valley alive with orange groves, grape vineyards and dairy farms. The San Bernardino Valley held the promise of an easier life than that of farming in Walnut Grove Missouri. My Grandpa told many stories of trying to make a farm profitable on his own with no help and he knew it would have put him in an early grave. He would go to work for the Santa Fe Railroad for the first five years in California until he realized this work in the paint shop might put him in an early grave as well. He would find a job at Patton State Mental Hospital where he worked as a laborer for twenty-two years until he retired in 1972, the same year I graduated high school. 

I spent a good deal of my childhood in that house. I remember hiding when I was a kid so that my Mom when she was ready to leave would I hoped, leave me behind where I felt so comfortable and safe. 

There was one thing that frightened me in that house when I was around five or six. There was an attic access in the bathroom at the other end from the toilet and when I sat there I imagined a ladder coming down and Frankenstein descending, his arms outstretched. I was a big horror fan even at that age. I would always rush to get out of there before the door would be blocked and the monster carried me away. Other than that, I loved the house on Ninth Street. 

A childhood Christmas at Grandma's house.

My favorite times were the holiday family gatherings that were always held there. The lot is a commercial half acre and there were walnut trees and Elm trees and places to play football, running through the leaves that Grandpa had yet to rake. I can remember diving into giant piles of leaves with my brothers.

My favorite by far though was the walnut trees that I climbed like an expert. My Grandpa had pruned them perfectly for climbing. You could go really high and I always did. My Mom was not as thrilled about this though, as on a few occasions I would look down and my horn-rimmed glasses would slide off, crashing to the ground. It was not fun wearing glasses to school that were taped at the nose bridge where they always broke. 

I spent so much time in those trees. I’d climb up there and think. Sometimes I was sad, but being up there with a different perspective always helped. 

Years later I tried to climb them and realized I was way lighter in those days, like a bird I guess, hopping from branch to branch.   

There were so many great things about that house, like the pool table my Grandpa put in the detached oversized two-car garage he built at the rear of the house. I can still smell the cut wood from the table saw he used for his many projects, including doubling the size of the house. I would help him if the piece of wood was big, keeping it level so it would not bind in the saw blade. Then I would sweep up the sawdust and he would ask me if I wanted a game of pool. We would lift the big cardboard shell off the top of the pool table that had been part of the box that it came in and carefully lean it against the wall. He’d remind me to be careful of it, so it could keep the table clean and safe. 

Those were good times and my
Grandparents were the reason. They stayed put and grew some roots. It was stable and safe and felt more like home than my own home. 

When my Grandmother left there at the age of 89. to first live with my Aunt, then my parents and finally with me she sold the house to my Brother. I remember standing out on the driveway in front of the garage one day and I just started bawling my eyes out. Bent over holding my knees, salty tears sank into that driveway where I’d worked on cars with my Grandpa, where Fourth of July barbecue were held and homemade ice cream cranked until it was frozen into a sweet creamy treat. I cried because I knew it was over and I guess I really let it out because it startled my Brother a little. But, he knew what it was and he lives with the ghosts in those walls to this very day. 

Me in the backyard at Grandma's.

My brother is refurbishing the old house and sent me pictures the other day. I think that’s what inspired this piece. He said It had to remain white with the black wood screens just as it had been since either us could remember. He commented that the wood siding was redwood and I told him that Grandpa often bragged that he had covered the original exterior with them because he knew they would last. He must have known something. Sixty-nine years later it’s still there where I can go into if I want to. It’s hard though because my brother's energy is there now replacing my Grandparent's energy. He did keep a lot of it original though, including a wall phone on the laundry porch wall and an old coat and hat of my Grandma’s hanging on a hook.  He likes to remember too. 

My brother and friends repainting the old girl.

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