...to Grandmother's house we go!
Why I love visiting Gramma Dorothy and Grampa John:
Everything is a fairy tale. Is this a Baroque painting or what?
I can feel like a princess walking through curtains of vines over trellises. I helped Grampa build part of this structure a few years ago. Grampa was always happy to let me help with big projects, and taught me how to use a lot of big, scary tools when most adults were protecting their kids from anything minorly sharp or anything that made a whirring noise.
One of Gramma's favorite stories about me was because Grampa let me help him build things. I guess I was about five, and we were putting plumbing into the cottage at the bottom of the property, and Grampa told me, whatever I did, not to touch the pipe. So I touched it, and broke it, and, apparently...said a bad word and ran over with a wheelbarrow of gravel to cover it up. She was tickled by my blunder, especially by me cussing at five.
Gramma stocks everything in abundance.
Every nook of the acre and a half is full of treasure, like these pods Grampa will harvest for seeds...
...or like these old letter blocks Gramma will sell.
Garden-grown apples, so tangy and crispy!
Antique silverware makes every meal like a treasure hunt. Which spoon will I choose? Can I find one with my initials on it? Or a rose?
My Gramma has a spirit from the Olde West.
Grampa and I picked the flowers from the gardens for Gramma. I drank the tea while we sat and talked, and mom stripped the huge bowl of elder berries from their stems to make jam. My stepfather brought them back for her from one of his hunting trips. The jar of jam is in my fridge now. Deeelicious! Old broke-back horse lives with me now.
Grampa's greenhouse
Quaint: back view of the house, with the rock wall and little seat Grampa built.
Door to the secret garden...
Presents from Gramma. She knows me so well!
Junking in front of the shed by the cemetery.
My patio bedroom, complete with flowers Grampa picked for me from the garden.
