Grandma’s House

There’s no place like home, except Grandma’s. 

I don’t know where this quote originated from, but it has always resonated with me, especially after my recent visit to my grandmother’s apartment on the south side of Chicago. As soon as we rounded the corner onto her block, my skin began to tingle, and I was overcome with nostalgia. My heart raced in anticipation of what I was afraid I’d encounter. I heard that some areas of Chicago had deteriorated over the years, and I hadn’t visited my grandmother’s home in over ten. My anxiety quickly turned to relief as we pulled in front of her apartment building. The street hadn’t changed much over the last thirty years. A few buildings were boarded up, but most were intact and looked no different from when I was a small child back in the late ‘70’s. Just like the other homes on the block, my grandmother’s apartment building had changed very little. It still had a quaint curb appeal. The two flat looked almost brand new with its freshly painted entry gate and front door. 

We climbed the thick concrete steps, and I asked my husband to take a picture of me as I stood between two beautiful floral boxes that sat on the steps’ ledges. 

I rang the bell.

My heart began to pound again but this time in excitement. We were buzzed in, and upon entering the tiny foyer, the familiar scent of “grandma’s house” assaulted my senses. As a child, the smell has been off putting. That day, the aroma was sweet. On the wall to our right, the mailboxes affixed to it still  had the handwritten names of the apartments’ residents. My grandmother’s was neatly written in her own cursive writing. She slowly opened the heavy wood door, wearing a multicolored striped housecoat that swallowed her small frame. Her smile was warm as she greeted us with, ”Y’all come on in.”

We walked in , and It felt strange that Grandma now lived on the first floor. I hadn’t ever been to this new apartment that sat right below her old one. When I scanned the small apartment, another wave of nostalgia hit me. Everything was in the exact place it had been over 40 years ago.This new apartment was an exact replica of her old one.

The creepy porcelain dolls greeted us as they stood like soldiers in front of the brick fireplace. Their eyes seemed to say, “welcome back.” The gold plated Service Merchandise clock that I so proudly bought her for Christmas in 1988 was still ticking and sat dead center on the mantle, surrounded by old family photos. I heard the familiar sound of squeaking plastic as my husband and daughter sat down on the couch behind me. In front of them, on the cocktail table, lay Grandma’s old white Bible, with a 1970’s Jesus picture smack dab in the middle of it. On top of it sat a huge golden key and a silver plated praying-hands book mark. Right beside the Bible lay Mickey Mouse and pineapple lollipops along with a huge peppermint stick. All were untouched, still wrapped in their original packaging.

 A few steps from the living room, stood the bulky wood dining table and the China cabinet filled with knick knacks and whatnots. On the console, the faded white rotary phone caught my attention. I picked it up, asking grandma if it still worked. Her quick reply, “Of course it does. I make calls off it,” made me laugh.

 I turned the corner and entered my grandmother’s bedroom. Resting on the thick quilt blanket, were the Cabbage Patch Kid and baby doll, still nestled in its cradle. As little girls, my sister and I had spent hours playing with them.

Adjacent to Grandma’s bedroom was the miniscule bathroom that housed an old fiberglass four footed tub. I wondered how difficult it must be now for my grandmother to climb in and out of it.

An unexpected feeling of melancholy settled in, as I entered the tiny kitchen. Like everything else,  It was completely unchanged. The stove, refrigerator, and two person table had never been replaced. I was instantly catapulted back in time, recounting the numerous Mother’s Days my family and I had spent making our plates in the compact kitchen. I remembered the good times when my cousins and I would spend the night, laughing and playing together. My trip down memory lane was interrupted by my grandmother.

”Come see about the freezer cuz it’s not gettin’ cold like its supposed to. The landlord is lazy.” 

Her request was directed at my husband who had no idea how to fix a refrigerator let alone an ancient one. 

As we moved to the guest bedroom, she offered us some of her Jimmy Swaggart tapes that were scattered on the nightstand because she “had too many.” We politely told her that we no longer had a tape player. Her response was to offer us one because she had two. Grandma proceeded to go from room to room picking out things that she wanted us to have explaining that she wouldn’t be here much longer anyway.

The neat little apartment, full of remnants from the past, had unwittingly become a time capsule.

Taking a second look around the little apartment, I wondered if she sometimes got lonely living by herself, seemingly detached from the modern world. I instantly felt guilty for not checking on her more often. 

We sat and talked as my grandmother explained who everyone was in the old photos. I had never cared before. I absorbed every fact and every detail, paying close attention to every inflection in my grandmother’s tone, along with every gesture and facial expression. She became her younger self as she eagerly shared fond stories about her parents, grandparents, and siblings. I was taken back too, to a time of innocence. A time where everyone in my intimate world was alive and well. A time where I was malleable, a dreamer. 

I soaked up every moment of that day, marveling at my grandmother’s strength and independence at 94 years young. The visit brought me back to my roots, the ones I had long forgotten.

As the time neared for us to leave, I spotted the small yellowed poster that was still displayed on the wall next to the front door. It read, I know I’m Somebody. Y? Cause God Don’t Make No Junk. It had always reminded me of who I was and to whom I belonged. 

I walked out my grandmother’s home clutching memories of my childhood along with a couple of her old purses and a binder full of pictures and magazine clippings. I also left with a desire to preserve my grandmother and every piece of her home because I knew I’d never get it back. I left wanting to be kind and giving just like she was. I left longing to be closer to her and the rest of my family whom I had neglected for so long.

Nothing in our lives is insignificant. The big things, along with all the little things, matter. The people in it are even more valuable. Treasure them.

Every word

Every gesture

Every memory

Capture every detail and hold them close to your heart.