Saga of the Sanpitch Volume 17, 1985 - Sanpete County

that boasted a handle which had to be pinched to open before one could enter. And there on the porch, just
as I knew she'd be, Grandma stood to wave her hankie. I saw her wipe a tear. We ran into their waiting arms,
Grandma squealing a funny little laugh and Grandpa chuckling way down in his chest. She held me at arms'
length and remarked,"My, just let me look at you. I believe you've grown since three weeks ago." I felt ten
feet tall whenever she said that. She passed out kisses, saying, "You must be hungry!" We followedher to the
kitchen and ate like we had driven five hundred miles instead of only one hundred and ten. After clearing up
the dishes, we all moved into the living room. By then it was getting dark and sometimes other company
stopped by to visit.
The grownups conversed about things like last night's thunderstorm, the hay crop, Margaret Edmunds
health, and Evan Bigler's new baby pigs. Grandma helped us draw with pencils and paper and Grandpa took
turns holding each of us on his foot, chanting a funny little sing-song, hoppity gallopity, hoppity gallopity,
woah! He bounced us up and down, pretending to give us a ride on his make-believe horse. My turn ended as
he laughed heartily and threw me up in the air. We looked at catalogues, story books, and old pictures albums.
Sometimes I just rested against Grandma's plump body, listening and feasting my eyes on all the curious things
in the comfortable room. Gifts given on special occasions hung on the walls, and some occupied a place in the
china closet or on the buffet. A silk pillow with a poem about "Mother," sent home by an uncle from an island
in the Pacific, was in that room for years. The smell of Grandma's house was special, like gingersnaps and
smoke from a coal burning fire. It made me feel good and I loved it.
When our young heads began to nod, we were scooted off to bed, past the coats hanging on hooks at
the bottom of the stairway, up the narrow stairs, and into the chilly bedrooms directly above the living room.
Even in summer the nights turned cool.
Coal and wood heated the house and cooked the meals, so there was usually a fire burning in one of
the stoves. In the ceiling directly above the sturdy brown heater in the living room was a two foot by two foot
vent which let warm air flow up into the bedrooms. This floor vent played a very important role in my
memories of Grandma's house. After we were tucked into the soft beds, I lay listening to the dull hum of
voices, the squeak of Grandpa's rocker and an occasional outburst of laughter. The safe comfortable feeling,
the smell of the bedding, the feather pillows, and just being there was an experience of extreme pleasure.
Sometimes in the night I thought I dreamt of bears, but would awaken to find it was only Grandma and
Grandpa in the adjoining bedroom snoring a strange duet.
I was awakened by sounds of the poker clanking in the stove as Grandpa built the morning fire. Always,
I could hear a rooster crowing "Good morning" to the fresh new day. Warm air soon started to flow up
through the vent; and before long, warm smells of breakfast followed. The delicious aroma of fried homecured
pork and hot biscuits interrupted our dozing, Slipping out of bed and dressing quickly, we followed
irresistible smells down the stairs and into the kitchen where Grandma was preparing the huge breakfast meal
Grandpa needed for strength to work a hard day in the fields. We sat down to a cloth-covered table, bowed
our heads in prayer, then watched in amazement as Grandpa began his meal. What a feast it was! Pie or cake
and milk still warm from milking, cornflakes drowned with sugar and thick cream, then meat, eggs and hot
biscuits. To finish off his breakfast he had "Million Dollar Pickles," home bottled sweet ones. We never had
things like that in the morning at our house, but it wasn't hard to coax us into following Grandpa's example.
We ate till we were stuffed.
For the next day or two I was made to feel no less important than a princess who had ridden into town
in a golden coach pulled by six white horses. The time was spent delighting in gathering eggs from the henhouse,
watching Grandma make soap, swinging for hours in an old tire swing that hung from a tree outside the
kitchen door, caressing and petting velvet petals of pansies from the flower beds, or walking a mile to the
store for a bag of penny candy, being careful not to step on cracks in the sidewalk.
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