Arriving at Grandpa’s House

Yet another English assignment. I meant to post this one when I wrote it (1/26/13), but I forgot. Posting my discussion topic from today made me think about it, so here it is! The topic for this essay was to write a 5-6 page narrative about a place of memory. We were to describe the place in detail and tell why the place or that moment was special. I chose to write about my grandpa’s house that we went to every summer. It’s a long post, but I think it will bring back happy memories to my family.

I close my eyes and I see it: buildings that are more than just walls and roof; buildings that hold a trove of beloved memories. These aren’t fine pieces of grand architecture. These are simple, yet beloved, pieces of my childhood that will forever hold a special place in my heart: a dusty old trailer at the top of a steep, rocky hill; a small nondescript two-car garage and a cozy two-story log cabin standing over the side of the mountain. This is home. This is the most beautiful place my heart will ever know. This is my grandpa’s house. We’re almost there.

Driving around the corner for our annual summer visit, Grandpa’s beat up, old, red and white trailer pops into view. That trailer is so old I’m not sure how it’s still standing. Grandpa brought it with him when he first bought the land hundreds of years ago. Long before he built the garage, he built a foundation for the trailer and connected it to plumbing and electrical lines so he could live in it. Now that he has the cabin, it’s just used for storage and memories.

As we pull in the long dirt driveway that goes past the trailer down the hill to the garage, the heavy wood and metal door of the trailer creaks open. Out steps grandpa: tall, thin and craggy, just like the mountain he lives on. Dad stops the car and we all pile out as grandpa waves hello. He’s not a man of many words, but he smiles. His worn and wrinkled face gives a quiet smile and a small chuckle as we three kids run over and hug him. After quick pats on the back he shoos us inside and welcomes my parents: a handshake to my dad and a gentle hug to my mom.

Inside the trailer smells of campfires, old leather and cigarettes. It’s so cramped in here; I wonder how we’ve all been able to fit for so many years. My brother, now 17, sister, now 23, and I, now 15, squeeze onto the one bench seat built into the wall of the trailer, trying not to knock into the small pail of wood next to the wood-burning stove by the door. We all made mom promise before we came that we could have breakfast out in the trailer at least once, just like we used to. Now that Grandpa has his new cabin, he doesn’t cook in the trailer anymore. He has a real kitchen now and this one is just for when bad snow storms come and knock the power out.

It makes me sad, in a way, sitting in this old trailer, remembering all the pancakes and eggs mom made for us in grandpa’s cast iron skillet over this careworn pot-belly stove. All three of us kids would cram onto the padded bench and watch Sidekicks as the tantalizing aroma of cheesy scrambled eggs and fluffy pancakes with warm maple syrup filled the air. Grandpa would come wandering out of the one tiny bedroom looking like a mad scientist with his rumpled red flannel shirt, his big bug-eye glasses and his mass of grey hair pointing everywhere. He’d take three steps around my mom to cross over to the other side of the trailer and flip on his little coffee machine before lumbering back to his small room to get dressed for the day and try to make his hair a little less unruly. By the time he came back out, looking much more civilized, the robust aroma of black coffee had filled the small trailer and all three of us kids would be inhaling our eggs and pancakes before bolting out the door to spend the day running around the mountain.

Sitting inside this trailer now, remembering how it had been, makes me wistful for those times again. Instead of being homey and inviting with grandpa’s clothes, books and movies lying around it, the trailer looks sad and lonely with the boxes grandpa had stacked inside it. The cheap linoleum countertop was still clean and orderly and the old 12-inch tv/vcr combo still sat on the tiny shelf grandpa had built for it, but the stove that once cooked all our meals, looked lost and forlorn, covered in a layer of dust.

After helping grandpa get the boxes he wanted to take to the cabin from the trailer, dad loads them in the car while the rest of us trek down the dirt road to the stairs that lead to the top floor of the cabin. As my brother, sister and I race to see who would get to the top first, mom calls after us, “Don’t go inside yet. Help your dad unload the car while I make dinner.” The three of us walk dejectedly back down the stairs and down another set to get to the garage.

It was going to be so strange, not sleeping in the garage this year. We didn’t actually sleep IN the garage, but in the room that was attached to it. Grandpa had built a garage with an attached bedroom and bathroom with central heat and air so when the winter nights got too cold for him to sleep in his trailer he would have somewhere warm to go. When we came to visit, this is where we usually slept. My parents would sleep in the queen-sized bed and we kids would sleep on the floor. We pretended we were camping and giggled around our pretend camp fire until our parents told us to knock it off and go to sleep.

As we unloaded the suitcases and grandpa’s few boxes, we set them on the porch of the cabin. Mom always liked to dust them off before taking them inside. The drive from St. George, UT, to Florissant, CO, was asphalt the entire way, but once we got off the freeway in Florissant, it was mostly dirt roads all the way up the mountain. Mom’s poor silver car looked like it had turned brown. Dad handed us each rags to wipe the outside of our suitcases and told us all to take quick showers before dinner. Now that grandpa has his cabin, there are three showers and it won’t take nearly as long to get us all cleaned up for dinner as it usually does.

The shower I chose to use was in the garage. The garage bedroom is big and roomy with queen-sized bed covered by a light green and white checkered quilt, two small pine night stands, a pine dresser and matching dressing table. There used to be boxes and miscellaneous items stacked about, but it looks like grandpa has already cleared those out. There are still pictures of deer on the wall and the big, round rug on the floor, so the room doesn’t feel too abandoned.

I slip my blue and white tennis shoes off and shed my dirty white socks. The 14-hour drive has left me feeling scaly and covered in grime. Padding across the floor to the brightly lit bathroom brings the familiar sensation of thin carpet over cold cement.

After my shower I dress quickly and walk over to the cabin. The walk is short, only about thirty seconds. The gravel driveway used to end at the edge of a steep rock going down to the valley below, but Grandpa bored stilts down into the rock and now the cabin sits over the rock and valley. Even with the cabin taking up most of the open rock, there is still an area left for us to climb down to the clearing. I can’t help but wonder if Grandpa left this particular section of rock open because this is where we liked to send his bowling ball sailing down the mountainside to see how far into the clearing it would go. With the cabin where it was, we could launch the bowling ball and then race inside to the lower balcony to watch as the ball sliced through tall grass and finally came to a rest far below.

The cabin is not your typical cabin: small, drafty, with one or two rooms. This cabin is large and roomy with giant light-colored logs. The porch for the bottom floor touches down to the driveway with two small steps and is a wide enough to accommodate several chairs. We don’t sit on it, though. This porch only faces the driveway. Attached are stairs that do a switch back to the porch for the second floor, but that porch is only big enough to get to the door.

Looking at these stairs brings back memories of my dad sitting halfway up, sanding giant pieces of lumber before helping Grandpa put in the second half of the staircase. There is still a small scent of wood shavings in the air as I open the door and step inside.

The bottom floor of the cabin is spacious and open, with no furniture but a few shelves on the wall. I can see through to the door across the room, which opens to a path leading up to the trailer. The walls are covered in large windows, bathing the room in light, showing off the paintings of trees and mountains that line the walls. There are a few blankets hanging from the ceiling that give the feel of walking through laundry hanging on a line.

As soon as I walked in the door, I was embraced by the familiar scent of my grandpa. It’s a mixture of mountain air, cigarettes and rich coffee. Being that this cabin is only a year old, scents of freshly cut wood and sawdust mingle in, creating a smell that is one of a kind.

As I gaze around the room, I am embraced by the familiar scent of my grandpa. It’s a mixture of mountain air, cigarettes, and rich coffee. Basking in the familiarity of this treasured fragrance, a new aroma wafts down the stairs, bringing me back to the present. My stomach growls as my mind recognizes the familiar smell of baked beans and corn bread, reminding me how hungry I am. Have they started eating without me? I didn’t think my shower had been that long. Quickly I race up the angled staircase. A cozy living room welcomes me as I round the banister at the top of the stairs. The room is the same size as the one below, but it’s filled with an eclectic assortment of worn furniture. My brother is sprawled across a long, threadbare couch while my sister curls up in a small brown armchair, reading a book. Grandpa is sitting a few feet away in another armchair, sipping a fresh cup of steaming coffee. Dad sits at the small kitchen table as mom stands just beyond him, stirring a pot of beans on the shiny silver stove.

“Oh, good, you’re here now.” Mom says as she turns around. “Now we can eat.”

“It’s about time!” Chris grumbles, rolling off the couch. “We just about died of old age, waiting for you.”

“Hey, you try having 500 pounds of hair to wash and see how fast a shower you can take.” I retort, sticking my tongue out at him.

“You should just shave your head.” He responds, “You’d look better that way, anyways.”

“Hey, now,” Dad interjects, before I can respond, “let’s all be nice during dinner and you can all go shave heads after we eat.” We all giggle as we grab our plates and get in line.

Instead of squeezing in with the rest of the family at the table, Chris and I take our plates and mugs out onto the balcony to watch the sun set over the mountain peaks in the distance. The view from up here is amazing. Just below us is the start of a narrow valley that stretches for several miles. Trees line the edges of the valley and large boulders dot the clearing, like zits on a teenage boy. The far end of the clearing slopes up in a gentle arc and then down in a steep decline, hiding a wide dirt road with a river beyond.

Staring at the dazzling hues of dark blue, red, orange, yellow and purple dotted with wispy white clouds that dance across the sky, my eyes start to close. There is a peace about this place that is different from any other. Time does not exist and nature goes on forever. Surrounded by family, adventuring and playing, talking and listening, it is a place I never want to leave. The beauty of the mountainside and the valley below are unlike any other place I’ve ever been. Grandpa’s house is the place where I most feel at home, a place where I belong.