Grandma Roseen's House
My Grandmother Roseen's house smelled of green growing things, and with the faint musty whiff of old house. My dad was born in the house she lived in. There was no hospital close enough to drive to in 1932.
Her back porch smelled like every screened in back porch in Eastern Washington. There was a dryness to it, along with the faint tang of irrigation water wafting around in faint eddies of scent.
In some seasons, you could hear the bob-whites calling. I learned to imitate that sweeping whistle perfectly, a talent I still have.
Her house also had a whiff of Lemon Pledge and glass cleaner. I think she always made a special effort when my Dad visited. She still felt a sting from her husband's children. The acrid, silent sense that whispered, 'You are not our Mother'.
yeah, it still needs work, but I think I have a kernel of something there...
Her back porch smelled like every screened in back porch in Eastern Washington. There was a dryness to it, along with the faint tang of irrigation water wafting around in faint eddies of scent.
In some seasons, you could hear the bob-whites calling. I learned to imitate that sweeping whistle perfectly, a talent I still have.
Her house also had a whiff of Lemon Pledge and glass cleaner. I think she always made a special effort when my Dad visited. She still felt a sting from her husband's children. The acrid, silent sense that whispered, 'You are not our Mother'.
yeah, it still needs work, but I think I have a kernel of something there...
posted by VGimlet | 2:07 AM
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