The meeting house

The house was warm and cozy, sort of like a snow day with the heat on full-blast. Grandma’s house was so welcoming, as if it were a meetinghouse for the family; the smell of freshly baked cookies, hugs and kisses, and not forgetting the toys, too. Upon visiting, I could feel the warmness and comfort and acceptance my family gave off. Oh, how I always looked forward to Sundays at Grandma’s.
Grandma’s house was an escape; a trip down 3rd Street, one of the last brick roads that remain intact in Fort Wayne. Her house was one of those houses downtown without a garage—but instead, rather, an alley-way. In the front of the house Evergreens dominated the porch with their bristles littering the rustic swing of the porch. Inside of the house flaunted antique dressers, an old record player the size of Texas, and a weathered davenport—as Grandma used to call it.

Grandma Josephine—shortened to Grandma Jo—was one of my favorite grandparents; she was caring and wasn’t the stereotypical mean elder seen in the movies. Always wearing her flowered blouses, reading her TV Guide magazine and baking, she brought our family together for one day of the week to spend time with each other and catch-up in between our busy lives. Every weekend I found myself playing with my two cousins, whether it was house, building a fort, or running around outside tagging each other. Our mothers worried, crying, “Don’t you go anywhere near that street you three, you’ll get killed!” We always listened.

Our family was pretty big; Jo had three sons and three daughters, and plenty of grandchildren to go around. I never got the chance to meet my grandfather, as he passed away about two months before I was born. My grandfather had built the house from the bottom up. He was a pretty clever man, interested in radios and trains—he made a living working for General Electric and invented new technologies for our constantly innovating world.

Grandma Jo’s house seemed really magical. My cousins and I would peek into drawers and rooms we thought looked mysterious, only to be amazed at what we found. What we found was treasure to us; whether it be in picture form or army gear from my grandfather serving in World War II. Oh, how we believed we were pirates.

My favorite part of the house was the basement. Filled with all kinds of memories and antiques, it always kept me amazed. My grandfather showed an interest in trains and had a large train track set up in the basement of the house with tons of train cars and small model homes—even a model McDonald’s. Whenever I went over to Jo’s, I would ask Uncle Jeff to help me set up the trains. This was probably one of my favorite childhood memories, because I liked to pretend I was the conductor when moving the many controls.

I am not sure why, but Grandparents seem to have the most entertaining stories; ranging from my crazy aunts and uncles or my mother’s childhood. She told me about how my mother’s Aunt Sammy gave haircuts to all of my aunts and uncles. The best part was finding an old picture of my mother in a spare bedroom upstairs from when she was in the fifth grade; she looked almost exactly like me as a child—buzz cut and all. Oh, how I felt bad for my mother and the dreadful Aunt Sammy haircuts.

Not even a block away stood Most Precious Blood Catholic School, the elementary school my mother, aunts, and uncles all attended. In the summer we played on the playground for hours and hours and went to the school’s carnival. With all types of fun things to do, my cousins and I would spend hours winning prizes, teddy bears, and even catching a few handfuls of cotton candy. At the end of the night, my two closest cousins and I would spend the night at Grandma’s house; she would make us bacon and eggs in the morning to fill our bellies. And that was why I loved Grandma’s house.