I use a meditation app to fall asleep at night. I also use two fans and an air purifier. Sleep, for me, requires a tremendous amount of white noise to combat both the tinnitus and the post-menopausal overall yuck. Aging, indeed, is not for sissies. Back to my incredible app. I don’t use the one where the celebrity voices read classic literature to lull you into a restful slumber. I tried it but couldn’t figure out the complexities. I use a different one, where a man with a lovely British accent instructs me to go deep inside of myself to slow my brain, slow my heart, slow my lungs. I find the process magical, better than any sleep aid I’ve tried. One of gentle James Bond’s common commands is to tell me to remember my favorite place. While I think he intends me to summon a cerebral beach scene with mai tais and warm sun on my back, that’s not where my brain goes. Instantly, I find myself standing in the 1973 kitchen of 705 N. Kaufman Street in Seagoville, Texas. I am six. This is my grandmother’s house.
1973 was the year my cousin, Jennifer, was born. This meant my Aunt Karen, my mother’s only sister, ten years her junior, had just married and moved from grandma’s house into a new house in one of the town’s first tract home subdivisions, La Fonda Place. I added the place. It sounds fancier. I was ecstatic. My Aunt Karen had a whole house now! She also had a husband who rode a motorcycle. She also had a parrot in her dining room who only said cuss words. She also had a baby. There wasn’t as much time for me, her favorite niece. My grandmother, always adept at sensing when things were wrong, began showing me a little extra attention. “Marsha,” she said to my mother, “let Dina spend the night on the weekends more. It’s lonely here since Karen moved out.” If you’re a grandma, make a mental note. This is master-level grandmommin’ right here. If you need more grandkid time, make it something they can do to help you.
I would wake up early in the morning. My grandparents slept in separate rooms, since my grandpa, though now retired, was conditioned to working nights at the Ford plant in Dallas. I would sleep with my grandmother, in her bedroom that doubled as an extra living room. In the winter, she would light the Dearborn heater around 6 am. If I try, I can smell the luxurious aroma of gas flames hitting a ceramic grate. She would wrap herself in a thick chenille robe and slide into her house shoes. Silently maneuvering into the white kitchen with the faux brick linoleum floor, she would load up the metal percolator and start her coffee. Next came the smell of her famous toast, cooked in the oven at a very low temperature for what seemed like years. By the time I decided to venture out from the warmth of cotton sheets, a psychedelic 70s quilted floral bedspread, and a crocheted afghan, the Cream of Wheat was bubbling on the stovetop. Wrapping me in a hug, this tiny woman could make all the ills disappear. If I close my eyes tightly, I can smell the hint of Estee’ Lauder Youth Dew left over from the day prior.
This morning in Forney, it was snowing. The text from our tenants, my son and his family, started coming through around 6:30 am. “The kids have school today, after all. Come with us when we drop them off. We’re hitting the gym afterwards.” Admittedly, it was the last thing I wanted to do. How lovely it would have been to dissolve back into my warm bed with a cup of coffee while two poodles and an elderly dachshund served as heating implements. Yet there was a nagging thought in my mind. “You should go,” said the thought. “Just go.” So, I went.
I sat in the backseat, in between granddaughter Chynna and grandson Ezra. Chynna’s thin, cold fingers wormed their way past the sleeve of my sweatshirt until her hands entwined with mine. Ezra sported a dark blue beanie, his cerulean eyes lighting up my heart. We shrieked at the snow snaking through the wind, across the road. We watched the flakes landing on the Bois D’Arc trees. We spoke of afternoon adventures like hot cocoa, popcorn, and cat snuggling. They scurried into school as we went along for our second stop. “Be careful,” my daughterin- law warned as she tested out a miniscule collection of frostiness that had accumulated in front of the gym. Instantaneously, my son’s legs went in different directions as he introduced himself to the curb. Once we knew he was fine, the laughter set in. “I told you to wear long pants,” said his wife. “Who wears shorts to the gym when it’s 18 degrees?” My heart spoke like a sonnet. These are precious days. These are special days. I should file them away for the times less rosy. For, those times will come. I just hope the grandkids choose this memory when one day, as they’re falling asleep amidst tinnitus and insomnia, a British man tells them to go to their favorite place. Thank God for snowflakes, Bois D’ Arc trees, and grandparents that set the bar high.
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.