Short Story: Granny’s House. Granny’s small, wood-framed house was tucked back into the bottom of the hillside. Up the hillside were the Norfolk and Western railroad tracks where the trains carried a constant supply of coal down to the barges on the river. The coal trains shook the house to the point that you thought it was going to fall apart but somehow it never did. It had a small living room, two small bedrooms, a small kitchen, a small bathroom and a floor furnace. It was always hot, crowded, and loud. It was where a young boy would learn some of life’s lessons.
It was where I would go every day before elementary school started and Granny would always give me a nickel so I could buy a chocolate milk at break during school. It was where I could tell Granny what happened in school that day. It was where she would tell me what her day was like. It was where we could laugh at each other’s adventures. It was where I was always happy and safe.
It was where Granny, Papa, my Uncle, Mom, Dad, my two brothers, and I often had Sunday supper. We all crowded around the small table in the small kitchen to share a meal and to talk. It was where I learned to listen, to laugh out loud, to question, and to be heard. It was where I learned I couldn’t just say what I believed, I had to say why. It was where I learned much of the history of my Mom’s side of the family.
It was where I listened to my Granny tell stories of life during the Great Depression with little to eat. It was where I listened to my Granny tell about moonshiners and bootleggers. It was where I listened to my Granny tell stories of working during World War II and anxiously waiting for news from family members who were fighting in both Europe and the Pacific. It was where my Papa would tell me stories of building the Pan American Highway through Central America during WWII. It was where I met my Great Uncle who was a US Marine who carried a flame thrower and fought at Guadalcanal and other places in the Pacific. It was where my Great Uncle talked about the good times during the war but rarely talked about what really happened. It was where my Dad would just every now and then tell us a story of when he was in the army in Korea during the war. It was where my Mom didn’t talk about the Korean War. It was where I would go to listen to the tapes that my Uncle sent to us while he was in Vietnam. It was where I saw fear in my Granny’s face as she listened to his tapes.
It was where I listened to Hank Williams, George Jones, the Carter Family, Johnny Cash, and Patsy Cline on the big, floor model radio in the corner of the living room. It was where I listened to my Granny smile and sing along with her favorite singer, Loretta Lynn. It was where my Papa would sing along with Hank Williams. It was where I first listened to the Grand Old Opry. It was where my Uncle introduced me to Peter, Paul, and Mary on his small phonograph in his bedroom. It was where I introduced the Beatles to my Uncle.
It was where I watched the Cincinnati Reds on the small, black and white television with my Papa. He loved the Reds. It was where my Papa and my Dad would teach me to play baseball. It was where my Granny kept pictures of me from all the teams that I played on.
It was where the preacher from our Church came to see Granny and told her that my Papa had died in a construction accident. It was where I first saw my Granny cry. It was where I first met my step-Papa and where I saw my Granny smile again.
It was where my Granny and I drank a beer together before I went away to college.
Later, it was where I first realized my Granny had dementia. It was where I no longer heard my Granny tell stories. It was where I had to tell the stories to her. It was where I cried.
When I visit my hometown, I always drive by Granny’s house that is still somehow standing. It is where I briefly stop the car. It is where I smile as a tear runs down my cheek…
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