A Hug from Grandma.

                                                                           Sometimes days just run together.
             Never knowing what day or date of the week it is becomes the normal around here.

     If yesterday was Saturday then today must be Sunday. 
O! The fun of it all. Sundays sure are different "around here." Around here. Funny I can't bring myself to saying "at home." - then they were when I was growing up.

Most times, my Sundays were spent getting ready to head home from Seattle.

     For whatever reasons "my mother" had given custody of me, right after I was born - to my Grandparents which in turn were her parents. I knew why but I keep that reason locked away but not because it is "bad" so to say but more because it is past borderline stupid but for the things happening the way they did - I was okay with it. More then okay with it and still am.

Though deep down I do feel a little confused at times because honesty, I was (still am) such a good kid. I never got into drinking, drugs or stealing - never found the need to lie (I am sorry Eddie - you are still in my heart! Viva La Raza) *pounding chest and pointing a peace sign to the Heavens. Unlike "my mother's" two other kids who went down very different paths ... 

     Sunday's at home were just that and that was everything. Sunday's at home. The house always smelled of fresh ground coffee *little fyi here - not to long ago I was pretty sick and the only thing I knew that was going to make me feel better, was going even remotely make me feel any better was a cup of my Grandmother's coffee. I drug myself out of bed - drove to Target and bought a little drip coffee maker. I grabbed a small container of Folgers (we never had any other kind) and headed back home. No, I did not forget the filters. I made my coffee and somehow it took me right back to The Redmond House and I was feeling better instantly. Wrapped in a hug from my Grandmother.
     There were always pastries on the counter in a make shift, folded up on the end and no doubt taped shut tin that called out to be eaten before going stale. There was always some kind of goodie sitting in the same spot - right by the telephone so that each time it would ring, my Grandmother could stuff her face before saying "Hello?" which often resulted in me hanging up for lack of understanding even the simplest of a word. A haphazard greeting.
     My cat, Midnight forever swirling around my feet - greeting me with the most long and loving "Meeeeeeeow" which I believe in kitty talk is either welcome home or I missed you. OR ... give me some food. I never really figured out which one but I was more then willing to go through all the steps it would take to find out. I loved that fur ball so much. He was my best friend - you know, the ones you can tell secrets too knowing they will stay safe, the one you can lean on and cry to without judgement. That kind of best friend. The best, best friend.
     My room. My room eternally just the way that I had left it before heading out on Saturday morning to go spend the weekend "in town." This room was my safe place. It felt like home. It was home. It was where I belonged. Often smelling of a faint scented strong flower that blew in on a breezes whim. Grandma would always leave fresh "pickings" from the garden in a tiny vase on my bedside nightstand. Sometimes I can close my eyes and not only see those little Forget Me Nots but still remember the smell of them. The smell of being loved.

That was home. That was The Redmond House.

Clearing up the statement that was made earlier about not really calling this "home." 

     I guess the meaning of that word has somehow changed just as the time does while moments tick by on an old clocks hand. The peacefulness is now chaos. The laugher has erupted into screaming matches - ones of lost socks or a misplaced Barbie. Get me a diaper and where the hell is the sippy cup now type of thing. 
     Though I always try to keep rich scented candles lit in all flavors, it sure doesn't smell like the warm Blackberry Pies or Parker House Rolls that were often baking in our large kitchen that housed long talks and very few tears. Where Spaghetti Sauce simmered all day and Fried Potatoes were for snacking.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time, back to when the television wasn't a 24 hour blaring life line. Where you could talk and someone would always listen and respond. Back in time where family dinners were cooked all day being enjoyed while sitting down at a table - together, slowly eating - savoring the tastes - not the grabbing of the cup of noodles that are popped in the microwave and shoveled in on the run. 

Sometimes I could go back in time not just for me but for my children too. 
So my kids can experience what life really was about - what it could be about, why when they say "home -" I get questioned as to why I roll my eyes - the answer would be much more clear to them then.

                                                                                                           Kazz 💋