Happy Happy Birthday Grandma Dear

My Grandma Bonnie is turning 80 this week. In honor of her birthday, I'm posting my favorite thing she's written this year. She's been taking an online writing course and this was for one of her assignments.

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

It is 1939 and I am eight years old. Mother, daddy and I are going to visit the old ranch where my grandparents live. It is located at the edge of town. The car turns off of San Antonio Avenue and on to a dirt, dusty, rut filled road and bumps along for a quarter of a mile before coming to the house.

The orange grove borders the road on either side. Every other row of trees has an irrigating ditch running between them. At the north end of each ditch is a cement standpipe that gushes water on watering day. The grove is well kept and for the most part weed free.

The yard around the house has two big eucalyptus trees. Eucalyptus trees shed their bark and it is hanging on the trunks in big, loose pieces, like a pealing sun burn. They are a hundred feet tall and untrimmed. The air is full of their smell. I love it. It smells like what mother rubs on my chest when I have a cold.

When I’m hungry I pick the biggest orange and dig into the bright, orange skin with my finger nails. It comes off in big chunks. I stick my thumb into the top of the orange and pull it apart. The juice runs off my hands and makes little tracks in the dirt. I pull the segments of orange off one at a time and savor the sweet flavor. It’s the best ever.

The yard has soft, warm, sandy dirt that is wonderful for bare feet. The chickens love it too. They make shallow holes and raise small dust clouds, while taking dirt baths.

We are living in the modern age, but this house must be one hundred years old. It has running water and gas lights, but no electricity. The bathroom is very large and I think it had been a bedroom before the house had inside pluming.

Good smells come from the kitchen. My grandmother is a wonderful cook. I love her red vegetable soup and cracklin corn bread. It has little pieces of pork rind in it, and is made into little flat cakes. They have a thick, brown crust and a flavor that begged for more.

At the side of the small living room is a stairway. It is very narrow and if two people meet one of them has to back up. It goes up to two bedrooms. Mom and Pop, my grandparents, sleep in one room and my two aunts, Bettie, age ten and Wanda, age twelve sleep in the other room. I love to stay overnight and sleep between them with my head at the foot of the bed.

Behind the house is an old barn. It is missing some of the side boards and has no doors. The sun light comes through holes in the roof. I can see dust floating lazily in the shafts of sun light. The goose and the chickens roost here and it is a good idea to watch where you step.

To keep the oranges from freezing in cold weather smudge pots are used. The pots have a round base three feet across and a smokestack three feet tall. They are filled with black oil and burned to warm the grove. It fills the air with black soot and the stink of burning oil. The pollution is awful!

Outside of the barn is an old wagon. It is missing the two back wheels, but it still has the seat the driver sat on to drive a team of horses. Under the seat is a large, empty, water barrel. Aunt Bettie and I use the wagon to play, “Going to California.” I drive the imaginary horses, while Bettie beats the water barrel, like a drum, and sings, Onward Christian Solders.

Whoever said, “You can’t go home again,” lacks imagination. I just did.