Remembering Grandma Babe

My Grandma Ross (or Babe as she was known) passed away this time last year. Shortly after she passed away, I took an online writing class. Our first assignment was to write about "the window". That was all the instruction we got. I ended up writing a piece about my Grandma's house and a specific window there. It was an emotional thing for me to write, but also very effortless. It's easy to write about things that are so close to your heart. I shared it with my family over the weeeknd, and my Aunt Barb suggested I post it here, because Grandma Babe would love that! And she's right. My Grandma would love nothing more than being a blog star, showing off her house and reminding everyone that she threw the best parties :) So here it is.

The Window
Growing up, one of my favorite places in the world was my Grandma’s house. Going there always meant lots of family, chaos, and Grandma’s famous homemade chocolate chip cookies! It was the gathering place for many holidays over the years. Thanksgivings filled with laughter, increasing throughout the day with the increased consumption of bottles of wine, Easter egg hunts with all the grandkids darting around the backyard to find the most eggs, and Christmases filled with flying wrapping paper and shrieks of excitement. My Grandparents had lived in that house since 1955. My dad and his 4 siblings grew up there and it was one of those houses where you walked in and thought “If these walls could talk…”

My favorite room in the house was the “yellow” room, the spare bedroom that had yellow flowered wallpaper and a yellow comforter. However, when visiting I usually slept in the “little” room, named so for its smaller size and because it had a twin bed as opposed to the full beds in the other rooms. Only at Grandma’s house does each room have a name! The kitchen was always the busiest room of the house. Everyone gravitated there to enjoy snacks while waiting for dinner and to help out when Grandma would allow it. The kids would spend their time playing on the floor in the family room, where no doubt one Uncle or another would be asleep on the couch and the older kids would be watching TV.

The living room was the quietest room of the house. This is the room where the adults would go to have adult conversations and get away from the chaos for a bit. An old grandfather clock stood tall in the corner chiming every fifteen minutes. Antique furniture filled the room and black and white photos of ancestors decorated the walls. In the center of the room was a large picture window. Framed by two wingback chairs, the window looked out onto the street in front of the house. Nestled in the window was a small table where an old red lamp sat on a doily. This window would be the first thing I would look for as we drove down the street, arriving at Grandma’s house because the lamp was always on, no matter the time of day. It was the sign that Grandma was home and anxiously awaiting our arrival. In the 25 years that I went to that house; there was not one time where that window was not lit up.

My Grandma passed away this past January after a year long battle with cancer. Once again her house was the family gathering place. We met there and we told stories and we laughed and we cried. We celebrated the way that we knew she would have wanted us too. The day of the funeral was cold and dreary as if all the angels above were mourning with us. Their tears falling in rain drops. After the memorial service at the church, the caravan of vehicles took the long way to the cemetery so we could drive past Grandma’s house. And as we approached the house, I looked for the window. And there it was, lit up by the old red lamp just as it always had been. It was the sign that Grandma was home and anxiously awaiting our arrival.