She's been gone for years my grandma.
But it still never feels like its been that long.
It still always feels like she was just here.
A tear almost treacled down my cheek when mom and I went to her (grandma's) house.
Would it sound too creepy if it felt like she was there? Lol
I hadn't felt her presence this strong since she was actually alive.
Every corner of grandma's yard brings forth vivid childhood memories.
The red doorstep where I got my first hiding...
Because I didn't approve of the lumps in my custard.
(this foodie thing goes back a long way).
The entire left half of the yard, now a spacious, empty gravel...
Used to be lined with rows of golden corn.
My cousin and i spent many a (pre) school holiday adventuring through them.
Oh and there used to be a hedge,
Its lush green, neatly separating the house from the mielies.
A respectful privacy.
She had chickens.
Lots of them. I loooooved feeding them.
I probably would feel way too cool to do it now but when I was five...
"keeeeeeeep keep keep keeeeeeeep keep" was by far the most beautiful song and dance ever.
(*Keeeeep: the sound one makes to attract and communicate with hungry chickens.
Why else would grandma chant this)
One of the rebellious chickens had somehow manage to fly-hop onto my head once.
My first encounter with absolute terror.
Free range chickens have no chill.
I remember I had adopted one of the chicks as a pet.
One day the neighbour's dog marauded the chicken coop an mauled my precious baby to her death!
(my baby could have been a he, I'm not sure. The point is, my golden chick was savagely attacked an killed!)
My first experience with devastation.
Grandma baked me a cake as an offer of her condolences.
My first baking lesson.
Grandma's house was always such an exciting expedition.
In the corner of her quaint kitchen sat a baby blue coal stove.
(ok it's still there... Post electricity hook up)
She didn't really use it anymore,
But she'd light it up and pull a chair up for me to sit there in the winter times,
While I watched her cook.
By far my favorite chef.
In her time, she had worked as a domestic for a Portuguese family.
It showed in her food.
All the other kids (in her hood) were defoz not having rice pudding...Huh-Lowww!!
(*defoz: definitely. In case you missed the evolution of slang).
*finger snap* my grandmas kitchen was. Beast nation bruh!
(except for that ONE time with the lumpy custard. No.)
One holiday, my cousin and I raided the pantry and got into the condensed milk.
(if u never stole condensed milk, might I recommend you consider therapy for your incomplete childhood. I'm just saying)
Hiding number two.
Also, after that the universe sent me a tummy ache for daaaaaaaays!
Grandma fixed me up a remedy.
(boiled egg with the yolk still VERY runny. It worked.)
The big tree to the right of the yard used to be ginormous!
We made one of those rope and pillow swings *a smile*
(I would tell you what we (all black kids everywhere) called those swings. But I don't know how to spell it. It's quite a complicated little word)
Oh the joy!
Many a day spent acquiring ashy skin and scraped knees out there.
Made me stop caring about my bright red tricycle, with the yellow seat and white handle bars.
(only until all the other kids wanted to play with it. Then that bike was out of bounds. I was terrible at sharing my ride)
Every glance, to every corner of the yard had a beautiful image of a colorful childhood. I could also almost see her yelling at us to come into the house before I start coughing.
(I had a mild case of Asthma then. Grandma used to put my business on the streets like that)
I pulled my Aston Martin out the yard and gave a goodbye smile. I had loved reminiscing with her sweet soul.
(*My Aston Martin has a striking resemblance to a Ford Fiesta... But that's none of your business)
We drove past the house where that old man lived on the street behind grandma's.
I cannot recall a time I had ever seen him sober.
Mom pointed to the house and said something really nice about him.
I felt bad. For a large part of my childhood I thought he abducted children.
(by "large part of my childhood" i mean my entire life)
Don't ask why. I don't know.
It's just. The unshaven, grizzly looking, dirty trench coat and brown beret wearing man that walked the neighbourhood streets, mumbling to himself... Fit the bill of a kidnapper.
(yes? No? Maybe?...ok)
I used to be so scared of him.
If I even saw him on our street I'd run into the house.
I now know better.
The struggle had torn him apart.
We drove past the house where one of grandma's "society" gal pals lived.
Bless her soul.
They were so cute those grandmas. They had a uniform and everything.
I used to go to society with grandma.
I knew some of the hymns by heart.
There were always scones and biscuit things. And tea.
(high tea much?)
Mom mentioned the time she and dad picked me up from the house during prayer circle at the end of one holiday.
- "it was the time after you had burnt your leg on the heater"
- "mama how did that even happen?"
- "you were dancing and performing on the coffee table, and you fell next to the heater"
Oh Gahd. I used to dance on tables *sob* this sounds like a low point in my childhood. I must've been going through a crisis. Why else?
- "why didn't anyone stop me?"
- "you refused."
I still have that scar. It's on my right calf.
We drove past the churrrrrch.
*raises roof*
The church where my parents got married.
Where my (older) brother was baptized.
The small Church.
It's bell (the church's) still in good form and apparently still functioning.
Grandma used to dress me in floral tulle dresses and white stockings.
(don't even judge right now. We all went through this. I've seen all your throwback Thursday pics ladies. And those bobby socks with the frilly things and ribbons? Some of you wore swimming costumes over them at pageants... So there)
Why my mother's love allowed itself to purchase white stockings for her beautiful, pretty eyed gem of a daughter is beyond me!
But... A mothers love, no matter what stockings it buys, is a love so pure.
Thank you Jesus.
I laughed until all this was left dotted on my rare view mirror.
25 years old going on 26 ( haaaayyy!!!)
And grandma's house is still a beautiful excursion.
I had missed her.
Her name was Daisy.
So very fitting I think.
