A Slice of Heaven

My grandparents’ brick home hugs the earth, low and flat like a lazy hound on a hot morning. The row of azaleas leading up the drive, slightly more unkempt than I remember, blooms in welcome. Papa’s blue pickup sits under the carport, in its usual place, but older and more rusted. In days gone by, he would be off in the fields somewhere on his John Deere when I arrived with my mom and sisters, and Grandma would be busy in the kitchen preparing a feast for a small army. Today I drive myself, and they sit in their armchairs in front of the television, napping and reading large print magazines.

I greet them tenderly with a kiss and offer to help my grandmother prepare a small lunch. She shuffles into the kitchen, apologizing for not having a meal ready. I assure her everything is fine. With a shaking hand, she offers me a candy bar for old time’s sake, and I smile, remembering the goody bags she would load us down with after a visit, much to my mother’s chagrin.

Those days are all golden in my memory. Sleepovers at Grandma and Papa’s were a slice of heaven for a city girl. Every morning, Grandma would prepare homemade pancakes from scratch, not a box. I was enchanted by the magic in her hands. Flour, eggs, and oil in a cast iron skillet would become something mouthwateringly delicious, a smell that would awaken me from slumber early on a summer morning even when I swore I wanted to sleep in. We would eat around the small wooden table in the sunny kitchen, the window ledges overflowing with African violets in small pots tucked behind the hand embroidered sheer half curtains. Grandma would greet us cheerfully from the stove as we wandered in from our bedrooms, asking how many pancakes we wanted. She always let us have as much butter and syrup as our hearts desired, and we usually left the table a sticky mess. Our laughter was her delight.

After breakfast, we would get dressed, and sometimes our cousins from down the road would come over. It was expected that we would play outside all day. Fresh air and sunshine were good for growing plants and children. Grandma always ushered us out with mock exasperation.

“Go, go, so I can clean up in here!”

They had 90 acres of pastures, barns, and fields to explore. We usually started the day near the house. Only the carport was paved. Everywhere else was glorious earth and grass; many days we went without shoes. About 45 miles inland, the soil was sandy, with a pale white top layer. Digging deeper, one could reach a darker, black substrate. Crops grew reasonably well here. Papa was fond of growing corn, which we helped shuck when he harvested it. Grandma had a small garden for fruits and vegetables – tomatoes, strawberries, and watermelon. Grandma liked to eat the tomatoes fresh off the vine. They also had some livestock, cows and chickens. The cows had become Papa’s pets, but Grandma still got eggs from the chickens. We liked to visit the animals from time to time but only with Grandma and Papa. They didn’t want us to harass them or get hurt by accident.

Papa’s tractor left lovely tire marks in the sandy soil on the road he created between the tractor shed and the back fields that ran behind the house. We loved to dig up the tire marks and make mud pies with them. Grandma would give us pots, spoons, and bowls, and allow us to use the hose to make our creations. We used the dark dirt to make “chocolate” and the pale white topsoil to make “vanilla”. You can’t add too much water to a mud pie, or it just becomes soup. It’s an art really. Once the consistency was just right, we would add sprigs of grass or the purple wildflowers that grew everywhere as decorations. Sometimes we would draw our initials in them with a twig. We tried to make ours as beautiful as Grandma’s real pies and cakes but never could live up to her standards. She always said ours were beautiful, though. Grandma had a way of giving compliments that made you believe them. She was never condescending. It was the softness in her eyes, I think. Those eyes could never tell a lie.

Papa would come in from the fields for lunch and laugh with his whole face at us, covered in mud. His crinkly, twinkling eyes were my favorite part of him. Papa was a jokester; he even teased the dogs and the cows, hiding treats in his pockets for them to find. He loved to have them nuzzle at him, searching for the food. It gave him a chance to love on them, scratching their ears while they dug in his pockets with their tongues for the treat. He even teased Grandma, telling us that a dish she made was good enough to make you want to “Slap your Grandma.” She would always shush him in mock aggravation, but I always saw the little smiles pass between them, the smiles of a couple who are more one than two.

We ate so much food at Grandma and Papa’s. Fresh vegetables with biscuits or cornbread, chicken or ham, fresh fruit, eggs, more desserts than you can shake a stick at, we never went hungry. They liked to say that the fresh air made us eat, but I think food was their love language. Whatever we wanted, we would have. Fresh chilled watermelon on the picnic table outside on the hottest of days, coming right up! Homemade ice cream with peaches we picked together from the orchard up the road, no problem! Grandma’s apple pie for my sister or chocolate cake for me, ask and you shall receive. “No” was not in their vocabulary, but “love” certainly was.

I learned to climb trees at Grandma and Papa’s. They had the best climbing trees on the property. Old sprawling oak trees with limbs that nearly touched the ground from the weight of living were the best trees to start on. The fields had several such trees sprinkled throughout. Papa plowed around these beauties out of reverence for their wisdom and experience. We called them the climbing trees and made daily pilgrimages to practice. We quickly learned to avoid the Spanish moss, beautiful though it may look from the ground, as it was crawling with red bugs that bite and cause extremely itchy bumps. We took a few tumbles and earned some scrapes and bruises, all in a good day’s work. The views from on high were breathtaking. You could see the fields stretched out below, long stretches of neat rows, the corn waving in the breeze. Off to the right, if you stretched a bit, you could see the roof of the house. Grandma would have a fit if she knew you were up that high. The sky above was cerulean and full of the optimism that only a 10-year-old having conquered a tree has. If you sat long enough, you could watch the birds flying lazy circles around the fields – hawks, crows, mockingbirds. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as free or as confident as I did in the top of the climbing tree.

Papa would sometimes take us for rides on his tractor. The machine made such a loud clatter, with its gigantic tires and diesel engine. The smell of rubber and gasoline contrasted sharply with the farm odors of tilled earth, unwashed cattle, and cow dung. He would attach a wooden trailer to the back so we could all ride along and carry us through the fields. The cows recognized the chug-chug of the sputtering engine and would follow us as we headed back towards the barn for the evening, calling softly to one another in anticipation of their dinner. Papa knew every cow by name – Betsy, Spot, Daisy, and their calves. He patted each one on the head or back with his large, gentle hands, as he gave them their grain. He would be back to enclose them safely and lovingly in their stalls for the night after we finished our dinner.

After yet another amazing meal, we would wash up and get ready for bed. Grandma and Papa would read to us on their large, soft bed for a bit before lights out. Fairy tales or some other children’s book of our choosing were always followed by a devotional and prayers. Grandma never graduated high school, having been forced to drop out during the Great Depression. Always self-conscious of that fact, she always had Papa do the reading. His gentle baritone was a soothing way to end the day. Grandma took us to our rooms and tucked us in afterwards. I loved the smell of the crisp clean sheets. She dried them on a line in the back yard, so they always smelled of summer air and warm grass. A gentle kiss, asking what we wanted for breakfast (it was always pancakes), and a wish for a good night before turning off the light was the nightly ritual. I remember looking out the bedroom window over the half curtain and seeing the stars and the setting moon above the neighbor’s field across the highway before drifting off to sleep, dreaming of the adventures we would have tomorrow.

As we grew older and life required more and more of us, we visited Grandma and Papa less and less. The last summer happened without any fanfare, and none of us realized it was the last. Grandma was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease when I was 16. Despite some shaking in her hands and voice, she still insisted on cooking for everyone whenever anyone came over to visit. We still had big get-togethers for the entire extended family at Christmas and Easter, but no more weeks long sleepovers in the summers. All the cousins were in high school, and summers were filled with sports and camps and school activities. Even when I was 18, though, Grandma still bought me a chocolate Easter Bunny.

Papa passed out while tending to the cows when I was 20. Grandma was frantic when he didn’t return to the house at his usual time and called my uncle for help. They found him on the ground near the barn after a 30-minute search. Papa was diagnosed with a severe case of Hashimoto’s thyroid disease which caused his heart rate to plummet. He never had been one to see a doctor regularly, but now he was required to take daily pills to maintain his thyroid levels. He also had to go see a cardiologist, much to his dismay. None of this stopped him from caring for the cows. The day after he was released from the hospital, he insisted on going out to check on them.

When I came to see them this time, aged 30, I was shocked at how things had changed. Grandma’s house had always been so tidy, but now, everything was just a bit shabby. There were piles of magazines and puzzle books near their recliners facing the television. The kitchen windows that had been full of flowers were now full of pill bottles and blood pressure cuffs. Even the carport, which they had kept clear for Papa’s truck, now had junk piled up. I saw a stain on the bathroom ceiling, probably from the air conditioner pan overflowing, that Papa would once have fixed immediately. The vegetable garden was overgrown and obviously hadn’t been planted this year. Peeling paint, hints of mold, cracked linoleum, it’s Grandma and Papa’s house but faded and timeworn in a way that is jarring. Even the smell is different – not pancakes, fresh vegetables, and earth but dust, stale cooking grease, and decay.

Over lunch, I ask Papa about the cows, and he lowers his eyes and tells me that he sold them a few months ago. He was unable to keep up with them anymore, and they needed good care. I can tell how much that pains him to say. Grandma pats his arm gently and offers him a biscuit. With a lump in my throat, I think about the barn lying empty for the first time in decades, no Betsy or Daisy to answer Papa’s call or nuzzle for a treat. How will he handle not having his pets to talk to every day? What does he do now that he doesn’t have the fields and the cows to tend to? The man who once seemed so invincible to me now appears smaller and sadder, so I switch the subject to talk about me, one of their favorite topics. They want to hear about my job, my life, whether I have a boyfriend or not, all the things that make grandparents happy.

We talk for a few hours, pretending not to notice the passing of time. When it is time to leave, Grandma insists on pressing a Coke into my hand along with a bag of treats, chocolates mostly. Her bent frame shuffles to the dining room to grab the candies for me. When she returns, I kiss the top of her snow-white head and tell her I love her. She apologizes again for not having prepared something bigger for me, and I tell her it was perfect. Papa grabs me in a bear hug and tells me not to be a stranger. I promise I won’t be. He kisses my cheek and tries to tickle me, like always. I laugh as I squirm away. I am struck suddenly by the radiance of their faces - how their soft jowls curve upwards with their genuine smiles, the jolly crinkles around their still twinkling eyes, their halos of soft white hair. They are more bent, more frail, more wrinkled than I remember, but still so full of love. I think maybe they are angels, and those summers really were slices of heaven.