Some of my fondest early childhood memories were of times spent at my paternal grandparents’ house. From the well-kept yard to the home’s crisp white exterior, the sprawling two storey with attached barn loomed large from that early perspective. 

Inside, the house was a treasure trove of antique furniture, collectibles and memories of days gone by.  The property paid homage to all who lived there – both past and present.

The house, like its residents, was full of character – from hidden passageways to spaces not found in modern homes – a parlor for instance. The room was never used, at least in my memory, but it was stately and on guard for its moment to shine.

The front entry with its ornate staircase to the second floor seemed grand.  Above, the three bedrooms and bathroom with a claw foot tub were spacious and bright. One of the bedrooms, located at the back of the house, paid tribute to my great-grandparents. From the few stories I can remember, my great grandmother was a force to be reckoned with.

I think I inherited my fiery spark from her.

On warm sunny days, my grandmother and I gently rocked back and forth on the squeaky swing in the sun porch. We settled in, each armed with a writing utensil and a section of the newspaper, my grandmother completing the daily crossword and me the wordsearch.

Nestled close to her, but with no words necessary, I felt safe and content.

At other times, I sat perched on a stool in the summer kitchen, using the hand mixer to cream eggs and butter for cookies. I felt so important that I could help.

When meal time rolled around, Gram would use her might to open the floor hatch to the root cellar, descend the stairs, and magically reappear with homegrown vegetables and bottles of her mustard pickles and crabapple jelly. I never saw the root cellar – she said it wasn’t a place for little girls so I waited patiently at the top of the stairs for her return. 

The large dining table was the backdrop for delicious meals in the winter kitchen.  Women of that generation prided themselves in fancy dishes and the table setting was almost as important as the food. 

Putting on the ritz.

Sometimes I sat on my grandfather’s knee in the sitting room contentedly crunching on Boston baked bean candy while taking in the adult conversation.  Both my grandfathers were good, hardworking men but Grampy Sinclair was the kind every kid hopes for.  He had affection to spare and I knew I was loved.

It was here I learned to play games like Crocinole, Chinese Checkers and croquet. If I tired of that, out came the Kodachrome, an early version of Viewmaster.

I was never bored when I visited my grandparents.

The long-gravel driveway was an ideal place to learn to ride my bicycle.  I can still remember my father gently guiding me as I shakily steered for the first time.  My grandfather was nearby cheering me on.

That house, the good times shared there, was my version of Camelot.

Unfortunately, soon after the spell was broken.

My grandfather was hospitalized, and died shortly after this photo was taken.  The property, too much for my grandmother to manage, was eventually sold.

An auction was held to clear the contents.

I was young but I remember that three day sale. People came from far and near. It felt like pieces of me and my story were chipped away with each item on the block.

My parents, having formed roots in a neighboring village, had limited space.  A few items survived, but most of the contents were sold off.

While cleaning out my own childhood home, I found a leger of transactions Dad kept from that sale. A moment in time recaptured but so many lost.

The recollections. The history. Our story.

It was a lot for my father, an only child, to contend with.  He lost his father, and his childhood home in rapid succession.

I was too young to fully understand his burden.  But now, after being tasked with clearing my childhood home, I understand the weight. The responsibility.

It’s heavy.

The flood of emotions, memories, and harsh realities that surface while sifting through item by item. The lessons on attachment. Nothing and no one lasts forever.

Not every memory is a good one. I still wish for different conclusions to some stories. Yet I try to make peace with what is.

Looking back, losing my grandfather and the sale of the ancestral home was the beginning in a series of tragedies and loss that would plague my family and change my life’s trajectory forever.

Even after all these years, I still drive by the old homestead once in a while. There is strength to be found in places your ancestors once walked.

Your Turn 🦋

What are some of the memories you have with your grandparents?

Can you recall a moment or event that had a significant impact on your life?

It’s Thanksgiving weekend in Canada. What are you grateful for? I’m thankful for each of you, for Nick the webmaster, and for memories.

This song is for you Gram. Bing Crosby’s Putting on the Ritz

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=K5SDZxzLvn0&list=RDAMVMQp6D71kQRhA