I drive by the empty lot now where Grandma’s house used to be. So much history. The big oak tree with its tire swing – bare-bottomed with a dirt circle from too many feet, gone now, grassed over. Just a memory. The smell of grandma’s wood cook stove wafts through my mind, reminding me of a simpler time. “Race you, cuz” past the adults in the room to grandpas chair in the living room knowing he most likely wouldn’t be there. He often sought solace on the back porch somewhere. Aunts and in-laws chatted inside, while uncle Pete, cousin Roger were in the alley outside putting a new engine in someone’s ride. Behind me, on the wall, from grandpa’s chair framed faces looked down with their military stares. Uncle Arch, uncle Sam, so many had served posed handsomely uniformed for the praise they deserved. Below grandma’s house the Greenbrier ran slow with big rocks and currents, just deep enough though to wet the imagination of a group of town kids ‘cause at grandma’s house, that’s what you did.
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