A Special Place in Time

In 1917, when my grandparents' house was being built, our town was young and growing. The streetcar line ended just a few blocks from their house. By the time I came along, the streetcars hadn't run for years and our town wasn't so young, but their house was still there and so were they! Some of my most cherished childhood memories are of times spent with them in that house.

Most of the people I knew as a child lived in houses that had been built since World War II single-story brick houses with little, if any, character. So this two-story house with its tall ceilings, panel doors, satin glass light fixtures with push-button switches, screened porch, multi-windowed sleeping porch and columned divider between the living room and dining room seemed like a palace! Although I see it now through adult eyes as a modest home, similar to many of its contemporaries, it still lives in my mind as an enchanted place.

Oh, that screened front porch! Furnished with a glider and several rocking chairs, it was the perfect place to spend - or end - a lazy summer day. I dont think there was a single room in the house without a rocking chair, and the front porch was no exception. I especially remember one rocker that was part of a wicker suite. Now, when I say wicker, I dont mean that dainty, curly-cued fluffy white stuff. This rocker meant business. It had broad arms and an oversized seat that easily held my grandmother and me for hours on end while we talked and listened to the katydids. Sometimes we serenaded them, too! We both loved to sing, and she took great delight in teaching me some of the favorites of her generation "Red Wing", "Harvest Moon", and something about shimmying "like my sister Kate". (I never learned if her neighbors shared our enthusiasm!)

From the north end of the porch you could see the side yard, a source of constant debate between my grandparents. My grandmother was one of those "Let Mother Nature do her thing" gardeners who felt that every branch and twig had a good reason for being where it was. My grandfather, on the other hand, believed that every branch and twig within reach was fair game put there for him to lop off. Somehow, they struck a compromise, and the side yard assumed the shape of a semi-wooded un-garden, filled with all sorts of hidden treasures. The list of things growing in that yard reads like a checklist for restoring the lawns of historic houses: wood hyacinths, narcissus, flags, trumpet vine, wisteria, spirea, nasturtiums, oxalis, camellias, lilies, and lantana, with a mimosa, several elms, a crabapple, a pecan and the obligatory Southern staple, a magnolia, thrown in for good measure. There was also a wonderful swing made to my grandmothers specifications by a local metal smith. While the front porch was our nighttime niche, this swing was the ideal daytime place to enjoy a cool breeze in the shade, especially if we had a nice chunk of my grandmother's famous pound cake to munch on!

Oh, that screened front porch! Furnished with a glider and several rocking chairs, it was the perfect place to spend or end - a lazy summer day. I dont think there was a single room in the house without a rocking chair, and the front porch was no exception. I especially remember one rocker that was part of a wicker suite. Now, when I say wicker, I dont mean that dainty, curly-cued fluffy white stuff. This rocker meant business. It had broad arms and an oversized seat that easily held my grandmother and me for hours on end while we talked and listened to the katydids. Sometimes we serenaded them, too! We both loved to sing, and she took great delight in teaching me some of the favorites of her generation Red Wing, Harvest Moon, and something about shimmying like my sister Kate. (I never learned if her neighbors shared our enthusiasm!)

From the north end of the porch you could see the side yard, a source of constant debate between my grandparents. My grandmother was one of those Let Mother Nature do her thing gardeners who felt that every branch and twig had a good reason for being where it was. My grandfather, on the other hand, believed that every branch and twig within reach was fair game put there for him to lop off. Somehow, they struck a compromise, and the side yard assumed the shape of a semi-wooded un-garden, filled with all sorts of hidden treasures. The list of things growing in that yard reads like a checklist for restoring the lawns of historic houses: wood hyacinths, narcissus, flags, trumpet vine, wisteria, spirea, nasturtiums, oxalis, camellias, lilies, and lantana, with a mimosa, several elms, a crabapple, a pecan and the obligatory Southern staple, a magnolia, thrown in for good measure. There was also a wonderful swing made to my grandmothers specifications by a local metal smith. While the front porch was our nighttime niche, this swing was the ideal daytime place to enjoy a cool breeze in the shade, especially if we had a nice chunk of my grandmothers famous pound cake to munch on!

This cake will probably go down in the annuls of American cookery as one of those secrets that died with its maker. Neither I nor any of her friends have ever been able to get it right, and I have reached the conclusion that it requires ingredients few of us are ever likely to possess,
namely a two-story house with a sleeping porch and a c. 1930 Universal gas range whose oven thermostat was permanently set on 323 degrees. Whatever got cooked in that oven got cooked at 323 degrees! I can still see that cantankerous green and ivory range, whose pilots never deigned to light. I had visions of its becoming a fire-breathing monster that only my intrepid grandmother could tame, and I was probably right! When my grandmother gave me the recipe for the cake, I asked her how long to bake it and she said, Oh, about an hour and a half, more or less, so I asked her how she knew it was done. When I can smell it on the back porch upstairs, was her helpful reply!

That pound cake was an honorary member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy and the Daughters of the American Revolution, and was probably a more regular attendant than many of the human members. I can still see it on its tall pressed glass stand, golden brown, just waiting to be sliced paper-thin onto someones delicate china plate. Baked in a 14" tube pan, boasting 14 large eggs, a whole box of powdered sugar and two bottles of Adams Best vanilla extract, it was a cake that commanded - and got - respect!

Another of my grandmother's specialties I've never been able to duplicate is her candied cinnamon apples. Cooked whole on top of the afore-mentioned range, with red hots and lemon slices, these ruby-red jewels in their bright spicy jelly graced many a Thanksgiving and Christmas table always served in a clear hobnail glass bowl that was probably as old as my grandmother.

The bowl once belonged to a neighbor of my grandparents. When she passed away, my grandmother bought some of her furnishings. One especially wonderful piece was an oak sideboard that I would guess dated from the 1890's. This sideboard was a permanent fixture in my grandparents back sitting room, probably because it was too big and heavy to go anywhere else! Its deep drawers and cupboard space held all kinds of treasures little parts to things long gone to gadget heaven, an odd earring (earscrew, as my grandmother would have said), a wooden spool of embroidery thread all kinds of things a child could spend hours playing with.

Sometimes I think I am becoming my grandmother. I used to say that you could open any drawer in her house and find two dominoes, a receipt for something she didnt even have any more, a pack of playing cards with one card missing and a handful of hairpins. Although I don't play dominoes and I don't wear hairpins, you will probably find in any of the drawers in MY house a package of unidentified photos, several old greeting cards, a dead battery and at least one part to something I don't have any more.

According to my grandfather, this family trait of being a pack rat was strictly on the distaff side, and he sometimes failed to recognize its advantages. He was known on occasion to corner guests on their way out the door and whisper, "Anything you can take with you, Ill appreciate." He would be rather taken aback to know that his son's garage is cram packed with things that HE won't throw away:)

One advantage of my grandmother's saving everything was the seemingly endless supply of clothes and costume jewelry readily available for hours' worth of playing dress-up. Chests of drawers, dressers and closets were packed with wonderful hats, lacy gowns - even some fur wraps! What a glamorous life I led, at least on Friday afternoons in my grandparents' living room. It was such fun to make my grand entrance down the staircase, pause regally on the landing, then glide on to my throne room, which was cleverly disguised to look like a front parlor.

My grandfather's "juke box" was in the living room, where he loved to listen to Tchaikovsky symphonies on his crackly old '78's. My grandmother's taste ran to more modern romance: Charles Kullman singing "Song of India". They could agree, however, on Gilbert and Sullivan, "The HMS Pinafore" being their mutual favorite.

Like so many couples who have been together for decades, my grandparents each had their own space. My grandfather stayed out of the kitchen and my grandmother stayed out of the garage, an old wooden building at the back of the yard where my grandfather did his tinkering. That garage was such a mysterious place, strictly male territory. I can remember standing timidly in the doorway watching my grandfather busy at his table saw. He would never let me in there while he was working for fear of my getting hurt by his power tools.

One of the most useful things (at least to me) to come out of all that hammering and sawing was a playhouse, which he built for me one weekend. In my six-year-old mind it was going to be a luxurious mansion with running water and twenty-seven rooms. The finished product was a bit more modest, but I was just as proud, and so was he! Though it might seem like an odd choice of materials for a little girl's playhouse, the pecky cypress he chose proved to be a wise decision. While it was not Tara, it certainly stood the test of time, and has long since survived its builder. It now lives in a peaceful spot in my parents back yard. Playhouse, clubhouse, storage for hibernating furniture, potting shed - it has been loved in all its incarnations.

Both of my grandparents have been gone for many years now. Their home has since belonged to several other families, but none of those more recent tenants see that house as I did - a place of carefree comfort, a source of fascination and mystery, a symbol of a time long gone - a time when graciousness was the standard and the pace of life was a little gentler. I will miss it - and them - always.