Sacred Space
Our visit to the Lonestar state was time well spent. Besides my wife having the flu or bronchitis or both not to mention high fever, we had an enjoyable visit. We ate pie, rented The Terminal, ate croppy from the lake, watched college hoops, and played a mess of solitaire and rummy. It was a restful Easter weekend seeing my folks in addition to my fantastic Grandparents. One thing that I was looking forward to during our visit was seeing my Grandmother’s new home (duplex). She has been a widow for almost 10 years and has lived in their townhouse in Shreveport since I was a child. Recently her sister who lived in Shreveport died and she wanted to be closer to one of her sons (my dad). So she packed her belongings and headed west towards Longview to begin her life in a new surrounding.
It was rather odd seeing all those knickknacks and delicate antiques in another setting. I will never again see much less visit apartment #63, but I did see all those things that occupied that place. Being in her new abode made me more aware of her old environment she called home. The utility closet that contained her husband’s golf clubs or ball and mitt that would be used whenever I would visit them. The dinner table we ate at and played Hand & Foot or Canasta for hours upon hours. I even sensed a longing for the upstairs that I wasn’t fond of as a child, vowing never to sleep up there alone. My comfort was sleeping on the fold out couch so I could be soothed by the unorthodox sounds of my Grandfather’s snoring in the night and gurgling of brewing coffee the next morning. The old TV that sat in the corner where I would sit on the floor and amuse myself with clips from the Gong Show or Cubs day games. Seldom would my Grandfather stay awake during our many late afternoon viewings of game shows. I even remember the chair he sat in while he untangled my Grandmother’s hair the night before she would go to the Beauty Shop to have her hair done. The wisps of gray and brown hair flew wildly in the air as my Grandfather slowly combed through her locks with his soft weathered hands.
Images that rushed into my mind of times past were what I sensed upon entering her new home. I didn’t think I would be as nostalgic as I was but that place was special. It was where my Grandmother would rock me to sleep as a gentle baby while singing, “Bringing in the Sheaves.” It was where my Grandfather filled the atmosphere with joy and laughter as well as swelling snores from catnaps. It was the place where I would sit and play G.I. Joes on their carpeted stairs, ignoring what was beyond my glaze. It was in some sense a place that won't be easily forgotten. It was sacred space.
It was rather odd seeing all those knickknacks and delicate antiques in another setting. I will never again see much less visit apartment #63, but I did see all those things that occupied that place. Being in her new abode made me more aware of her old environment she called home. The utility closet that contained her husband’s golf clubs or ball and mitt that would be used whenever I would visit them. The dinner table we ate at and played Hand & Foot or Canasta for hours upon hours. I even sensed a longing for the upstairs that I wasn’t fond of as a child, vowing never to sleep up there alone. My comfort was sleeping on the fold out couch so I could be soothed by the unorthodox sounds of my Grandfather’s snoring in the night and gurgling of brewing coffee the next morning. The old TV that sat in the corner where I would sit on the floor and amuse myself with clips from the Gong Show or Cubs day games. Seldom would my Grandfather stay awake during our many late afternoon viewings of game shows. I even remember the chair he sat in while he untangled my Grandmother’s hair the night before she would go to the Beauty Shop to have her hair done. The wisps of gray and brown hair flew wildly in the air as my Grandfather slowly combed through her locks with his soft weathered hands.
Images that rushed into my mind of times past were what I sensed upon entering her new home. I didn’t think I would be as nostalgic as I was but that place was special. It was where my Grandmother would rock me to sleep as a gentle baby while singing, “Bringing in the Sheaves.” It was where my Grandfather filled the atmosphere with joy and laughter as well as swelling snores from catnaps. It was the place where I would sit and play G.I. Joes on their carpeted stairs, ignoring what was beyond my glaze. It was in some sense a place that won't be easily forgotten. It was sacred space.
posted by c | 2:32 PM
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