Spending time at Grandma and Grandpa’s house was something that I always took for granted. It seemed that the house would always be there, my grandparents would always be there, we would always have another holiday to gather as one big, happy, extended family. Thanksgiving would be turkey, Christmas would be ham and presents. Easter would involve epic egg coloring, and Fourth of July grilled black hot dogs. The coming of August would bring hot air balloon races flying overhead, and hoards of cyclists passing through the neighborhood. Halloween meant chili and trick-or-treating as far and as fast as our little legs would carry us. There would always be many reasons to visit Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
With time came the inevitable changes. Family events became fewer and further between, and never seemed to last all day and all night like they used to. Eventually, the house emptied itself of living souls completely, leaving behind only a lifetime of collections that crowded each room and stood as colorful relics of days gone forever.
I brought my camera to Grandma and Grandpa’s house today, to try to capture a bit of the dwindling spirit that made this home such a vibrant place, teeming with life on countless occasions. My goal was to focus on those details that may have stood out to me twenty years ago. I wanted to capture the feel of leaning over the upstairs banister looking down, and the hesitation of a child peering down the basement stairwell, looking for monsters.
I couldn’t capture the scents of the place: yew, Irish Spring, musty carpet, freshly popped popcorn. But if you stare at the images long enough the memory of it might come back to you. You may even begin to remember the feel of knees burnished by orange carpet that was plush and bright long before I ever crawled across it. You might begin to feel the impossible heft of the door, inseparable from the squeak of the hinge and the beep of the alarm at ready. You might hear my grandfather’s laugh, and footsteps receding in the hallway, stepping down two steps, then immediately stepping back up two steps to the kitchen. You might rediscover a long lost part of yourself in those red tiled floors and brown striped upholstery. It’s worth a look to see.
I began writing this blog with long drawn out captions, attempting to describe the significance of each scene I had chosen to capture. I decided instead that the photographs could speak for themselves, or silently hold their mysteries forever.
Before long these images will be mere reminders.
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wow! what a cool house. and awesome pictures too! you should enter some of these into the fair contest. 🙂
Thank you! I think I will enter the one with all the oil lamps in the window. It’s my favorite!
The one thing in our lives that never changed. Even this, too, will change. You captured alot of memories. I hope I can swing by there when I come home in July.
A tremor is felt as a dynasty implodes upon itself; and , yet , not to be lost. For , the crumbled ruins seethe with fertility. As asparagi spring forth among the fodder… a new generation is born…not knowing the sins of its forefathers , and donned with a surge. But , be not arrogant against the past. The heretofore have made the foundation on which we stand. And , well stand we. The compost of yore , is the nutrition to be . Even the lowliest worms are but the pinnacles of arduous pyramids. Pyramids that we inherit not ,nor deserve ,yet , they
convey us onto the plane of life as we know it. Such said : Thank You for the memories !
That’s a very poetic response! You’re welcome 😉