Sold

I always referred to my Grandma Betty as “Grammy B”. She had a great sense of humor! She had curly brown hair, false teeth that she’d clack at us kids to freak us out, had a deep and mildly gravely smokers voice, loved the song “Yellow Rose of Texas”, could play “There’s a Tear in my Beer” on the piano, was a nurse for St. Mary’s and Blessing for over 20 years, once raised dachshunds, and loved her kids and grandkids. At family events she’d always make cherry jell-o with banana slices and cool whip and loved to dunk peanut butter toast in her coffee. She loved the Pillsbury Doughboy and always had a cookie jar shaped like him on her refrigerator. She liked her grandkids to scratch her back with a hair brush and helped us catch fire flies in the back yard during the summer. One summer in particular, the holes we punched in the top of our mason jar were too big, and Grammy B and I accidentally filled her living room with lightening bugs.

Every single memory I have of her is in her house in Quincy. I know she visited us in Oklahoma, but every single story is wrapped up the package that is 3326 Lindell Street. When she passed away in 1996, her house was sold, along with any hope of every setting foot in it again. This past winter, I happened to be driving down her street and saw a “For Sale by Owner” sign in the yard. I immediately pulled over and called the number, telling them that, yes, I was interested in seeing the house to purchase, but honestly, my interest was more of a sentimental nature. They agreed to allow me to see the home. I walked in the back door that used to lead to the garage. The garage had been torn off years before and replaced with a detached two car building in the back. The kitchen was bright and updated, but still housed her original cabinets. Two built-ins were still there, just with a fresh coat of paint. New carpet ran the length of the home and the planter box that used to box in her entry was no longer there. It still felt like Grammy’s house, just brighter and more modern. The biggest shock was when we went to the basement. Grammy’s basement was one of the scariest places I remember from my childhood. It always smelled musty and had a scary single shower that we had to use as kids. It creeped me out so much, so color me amazed when we descended into this warm, happy, open space. They had jack hammered the basement floor to allow more livable space and created an additional bedroom, bathroom, laundry room, and living space. This part looked nothing like my Grammy’s house, but it still made me tear up. It was so surreal how much this home had changed in the past 22 years, and yet, how much had remained the same. A part of me desperately wants to buy that house. I want it in my family. I want my kids to grow up there, to run in the backyard catching fire flies. I dread the day I see “Sold” on the sign in the yard and that all too familiar feeling of finality will set it. All hope of walking in my Grammy B’s front door will be gone, again.