Three of my grandchildren live in my house with their
parents. It’s a temporary arrangement, but it brings back so many memories of when
I called my grandma’s house home. I can close my eyes and see snapdragons,
snowball bushes, apricot and walnut trees, a cow pasture and milking barn. There
was a clothesline hung from metal pipes that wasps found irresistible, a garage housing everything in the world but cars, a well with a noisy pump, and a basement
window that once delivered coal to the furnace room. I explored my world on
bare feet as hard as horns. I think must have been a wild child, as feral as
the cats that nested in the shed and in the car set “out to pasture.” My
grandkids are far more domesticated, spending their days with Disney movies and
handheld tablets. Theirs is a safer, less messy world. But somehow it still
makes me sad.
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