My paternal grandmother has lived in the same house in Rocky River, a suburb of Cleveland, since 1971. When she arrived, she was at the end of a divorce from my grandfather, and starting a new life as the single mother of 4 children. Since then, she’s remarried, and seen grandchild after grandchild stumble through the threshold. Accordingly, the house is filled with framed photographs and collages of local newspaper clippings, wedged into every corner that can be done so tastefully. With all this in mind, there is one room in this house that is undeniably dedicated to nostalgia- the dining room. Cornered and covered in layers of creamy white paint, a swinging door creates a barrier between the oak floor and the tiles of
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The figure has a face drowning in long, raven-black hair, and wears a sort of cloak around their body with a headdress resembling antlers, hinting at my grandma’s inclination for the non-tribe-specific Native American aesthetic, which is obvious in other nooks and crannies around the house, as well as my grandma’s wardrobe, full of turquoise and woven ponchos. My grandma’s house is, generally speaking, mismatched. In my mind, this is appropriate- it resembles the distance I feel from her, having grown into an adult so very different from the child once photographed in a bright blue bathing suit, laughing in her arms in the swimming pool. Every item she owns is familiar –her pig collection, unread coffee table books, the plastic cups in 1970’s yellows, green, and oranges that sit huddled in one cabinet- despite my unknowing of why it’s …show more content…
Whenever I enter it, I prompted to think that this house holds a divide between family and strangers- my step-grandfather’s children. Two identical shelf units stand on either end of the eastern wall. They encase leather-bound books, unwound clocks, model cars, and photographs, full of faces I love and do not recognize, some browning around the edges. Peering at the pictures on these shelves often reminds me that I do not know what my biological grandfather looked like. He died of lung cancer before I had the chance to meet him. From time to time I like to think that he looked like my father does, especially because they share the same name, but in truth I’ve never pictured him in that likeness. In my mind, he’s something of a Humphrey Bogart, swathed in black and white, sat at a bar with cigarette in hand. A door composed of small square windows, with white wooden frames, is settled between these two shelves. Through it you can see outdoors, to the half concrete/half red wood patio, with metal chairs and a glass table. It is almost never opened. Once, as a child, coming in from the back yard, I decided to try the handle- it creaked open, but moved smoothly on its hinges. My grandma was perturbed that I had opened this door, but could give no reason not use it other than, “We just don’t.” It was as if she thought that this door, fragile but untouched, was the one thing keeping
The figure has a face drowning in long, raven-black hair, and wears a sort of cloak around their body with a headdress resembling antlers, hinting at my grandma’s inclination for the non-tribe-specific Native American aesthetic, which is obvious in other nooks and crannies around the house, as well as my grandma’s wardrobe, full of turquoise and woven ponchos. My grandma’s house is, generally speaking, mismatched. In my mind, this is appropriate- it resembles the distance I feel from her, having grown into an adult so very different from the child once photographed in a bright blue bathing suit, laughing in her arms in the swimming pool. Every item she owns is familiar –her pig collection, unread coffee table books, the plastic cups in 1970’s yellows, green, and oranges that sit huddled in one cabinet- despite my unknowing of why it’s …show more content…
Whenever I enter it, I prompted to think that this house holds a divide between family and strangers- my step-grandfather’s children. Two identical shelf units stand on either end of the eastern wall. They encase leather-bound books, unwound clocks, model cars, and photographs, full of faces I love and do not recognize, some browning around the edges. Peering at the pictures on these shelves often reminds me that I do not know what my biological grandfather looked like. He died of lung cancer before I had the chance to meet him. From time to time I like to think that he looked like my father does, especially because they share the same name, but in truth I’ve never pictured him in that likeness. In my mind, he’s something of a Humphrey Bogart, swathed in black and white, sat at a bar with cigarette in hand. A door composed of small square windows, with white wooden frames, is settled between these two shelves. Through it you can see outdoors, to the half concrete/half red wood patio, with metal chairs and a glass table. It is almost never opened. Once, as a child, coming in from the back yard, I decided to try the handle- it creaked open, but moved smoothly on its hinges. My grandma was perturbed that I had opened this door, but could give no reason not use it other than, “We just don’t.” It was as if she thought that this door, fragile but untouched, was the one thing keeping