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Childhood memories at grandparents home
Childhood memories of grandparents
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I remember as a young child about 9 years old always given the privilege to visit my grand parents in Rutherfordton, North Carolina in the summers. I loved my grandparents with all my heart since they were the only set I had ever known. My father had left my brother and I at a young age and his parents had seemed to have left as he did. Every now and then they would resurface but never really had any part in my life. My mother’s parents were known to all of us as “Maw-maw and Paw-Paw”. With me being from the North all the Yankees addressed their grandparents as “Grandma and Grandpa”. I always felt extra special being able to call them Maw and Paw. It gave me a feeling as if “they”were different from other grandparents and in my eyes they were. My Maw-Maw was very short and plump, glasses, wore a dress with an apron and pure white hair with yellow highlights. I remember hugging her one day and the sun was reflecting from her hair. I noticed the yellowish streaks that flowed throughout. My hair was dark brown and it made me wonder what I was going to look like with white hair as she did. Her hands worked tripled the years I had lived. They were hands that were worked to the bone by farm life but when I was hurt she would comfort me. Those hands you would have thought belonged to a brain surgeon. She married at 13 years old and had her first born at 14 years old. Eight children in all and a marriage of 54 years to follow. My Paw-Paw was of a tall nature and had black coal hair. He had skin as brown as clay and he never showed his skin. He always wore long sleeve shirts and overalls and boots. He would say, “The Lord does't want us to be runnin' around naked”. Later I would come to know that my Paw-Paw had allot of those Lord s... ... middle of paper ... ...nt porch swing, dirty bare feet and licking honey down to your elbows. My grandparents were very religious people and their Christianity was of a true faith. Every morning and every night he would sit in his old green recliner by the table lamp and read from his Bible. In seeing him do that every night it was by his example that I knew my Paw-Paw was a loving, kind and good man. Just before he would turn out the light he would make his way to the old clock mounted to the wall and with the key wind it up before retiring to bed. In the morning the same routine. He would read from his Bible then wind the clock for the day ahead. Grace was said before each and every meal and you were always asked if you had said your prayers before going to bed. I loved that about them that they knew and loved God so much but I had really not even come to know Him yet.
Granny’s name “Weatherall” reflects strength, survival, and endurance (Harder, 151). Her memories upon her deathbed reveal her to be strong, independent, Catholic, and Southern (Abcarian, 20). Her life was a struggle to avoid dealings with her true feelings (Brinkmeyer 12). Granny is not ready to die and has not come to terms with the events of her life. She is desperate to discover some meaning and purpose for the life she lived (Abcarian, 20). Granny is bored to explore repressed memories and her true self and feelings (Brinkmeyer, 11-12). The critical event in her life occurred when her fiancé George left her at the altar (Abcarian, 20). It is obviously a turning point in her life (Brinkmeyer, 11). She returns to it again and again and recalls that “the whole bottom dropped out of the world” (Brinkmeyer, 11). Despite marrying another man and having a family, she suffered a loss that was never fulfilled (Abcarian, 21). Granny comes to realize in the end that even her religion has been a means of denying real feelings and pain...
In the town of Sebewaing not much goes on, and not much will. but recently, in the past few years, things in Sebewaing has been seaming to change that. But, back to my story, my grandfather and I just finished installing the new support beam when, now our immediate family started to show up, as they usually do. “Jesus, don’t they ever stay home?” Grandpa said. You see, my Grandpa is a crotchety old man, but for good reason. I seen my sister and her now fiance walking up too go inside the house but, this time it seemed very peculiar; prior to me going in the house, I seen my sisters fiance look at me with an estranged look. My grandpa instructed me to go take out the trash for him which I did happily, about 5 minutes later I came into the house and looked around, “What the hell is up with everyone?” I asked myself. I discovered while looking around that everyone had an eerie look on their faces, as if someone just died. I sat down and
I rushed out of the bedroom confused. I began to realize what was going on. I ran to where I last saw her and she was not there. Never before I felt my heart sank. My eyes filled with tears. I dropped to my knees and felt the cold white tile she last swept and mopped for my family. I look up and around seeing picture frames of of her kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren smiling. I turn my head to the right and see the that little statue of the Virgin Mary, the last gift we gave her. I began to cry and walked to my mother hugging her. My father walked dreadfully inside the house. He had rushed my great grandmother to the hospital but time has not on his side. She had a bad heart and was not taking her medication. Later that morning, many people I have never seen before came by to pray. I wandered why this had to happen to her. So much grief and sadness came upon
Porter and Welty both provide flashbacks and memories in their stories to help the reader see what Granny and Sister’s lives were like before everything fell apart with their families. Porter’s “The Jilting of Granny Weatherall” is packed of the flashbacks and memories of Granny’s past relationships with the only people she loves even though are all dead. She reminisced about her youthful days when she was strong, independent, and with John, the man who stood her up at the altar and died when Granny was young. She still loves him and wants to see him, but “John would be looking for a young woman with the peaked Spanish comb in her hair and the painted fan,” (Porter 81) she believed he would not recognize her. Granny also lost one of her daughters, Hapsy along with her newborn who also died. When Granny brought those memories to the surface a fog of darkness, clouds reality and she gets lost and recalls that, “there was the day, the day, but a whirl of dark smoke rose and covered it, crept up and over into the bright field where everything was planted so c...
I can distinctly recall spending many early mornings with my mother as a very young child. Endlessly engraved in my memory is aroma of coffee and sprinting down the stairs to my basement to collect my mothers’ uniform from the dryer. And then with a kiss laid upon my forehead, she would drop my siblings and I off at my grandparents’ home to begin her ten, sometimes twelve hour shifts as an ultrasound technologist. Then just as I can vividly recount my mother’s morning routine, I still can picture the evenings I spent with my mother to the same caliber. Simply put, my mother is a wonderful cook. And thus, each evening she would prepare a different meal. And while the meals always varied, her superior cooking skills never faltered. Despite her hectic work schedule, never once did I witness my mother skip cooking dinner for myself, my four elder brothers, or my father.
Summer was coming to an end, the night air grew brisker and the mornings were dew covered. The sun had just started to set behind our home; my father would be home soon. I walked into the kitchen only to be greeted by my mother cooking dinner. She stood there one hand on her hip, her one leg stuck out at her side, knee slightly bent, stirring the pot holding the spoon all the way at the tip of the handle. She looked as pissed off as could be. My mother always felt she could be doing a million other things besides cooking dinner. We sat there talking until I heard a familiar soft rumble in front of our house. The rumble was accompanied by my father fidgeting at the front door. His old noisy Bronco always made his presence known. He plodded down the hallway into the kitchen to greet my mother with a peck on the cheek. After one more quick stir she plopped a hot pad on the table followed by a pan of sliced meatloaf in sauce. The smell of the meat, potatoes, and veggies filled the kitchen instantly and the family gathered around the table. The meal was a typical one in our household, my mother who had a million other things to do that day, including having her own personal time did not feel like cooking a twelve course meal. However, my father who always came home expecting steak did not see the meal as appetizing as the rest of us.
I hid my face as I sat desperately alone in the back of the crowded church and stared through blurry eyes at the stained glass windows. Tears of fear and anguish soaked my red cheeks. Attempting to listen to the hollow words spoken with heartfelt emotion, I glanced at his picture, and my eyes became fixed on his beloved dog. Sudden flashes of sacred memories overcame me. Memories of soccer, his unforgettable smile, and our frequent exchange of playful insults, set my mind spinning. I longed only to hear his delighted voice once more. I sat for what seemed like hours in that lonely yet overcrowded church; my tears still flowed, and I still remembered.
My great great great great grandfather found his way home, my ancestors remained not all of them but his mother, father and brothers all remained in the land that is know our land. He made his way atop the hill and into the clearing and there she sat my greatest of grandmothers hanging clothes they say she knew in a second that coming towards her was the son she thought she had lost. His father returning from the river fell to his knees at the sight of his little boy that came back as a
The familiar smell of soft cookies and homemade cooking are common thoughts when people think about their grandma's house. Great feasts and family gatherings play a part in everyone's grandmother's home. But when I really think about my grandma's house only one word comes to my mind: fun.
My favorite summer vacation was when my Father took me to Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. What made it even more memorable was the fact that it was my very first time on an airplane. I cannot recall another time in my life when I experienced so much joy. That trip to Universal Studios was the first time my Father and I actually did something together, just the two of us and was something brought me close to my Father. In this essay I will tell you about my plane ride over there, what I did right when I got there, and about my time at Universal Studios.
I don’t know a lot about my grandfather, I know he drank and smoked heavily for a long time, and that those were the main contributors to his death at the age of 45. My grandmother told me that he was a very loving man, but that there was always a deep sadness that followed him since she had known him. My grandmother Jaqueline was probably one of the two strongest people I have ever known, she had survived German occupation in Normandy (and fought against it as a teenager), lived in some of the poorest countries in the world teaching rural school children, and raised 5 children after having been left a widow. While not all of my uncles would turn out well following the death of their father, she tried her hardest as a single parent to make sure they always had food and a loving family to come home to, but she faced many of the same economic and social problems that single parents still face today (Knox, 362). She also had very polarized views of types of people and wasn’t afraid to talk about it (she was racist towards Romani) and it often upset my family, as my aunt and cousins are Romani (My parents were able to turn that into a lesson about racism and how it hurts people). Her long stays with my family would often put a lot of strain on my parent’s relationship, but living in France, it was not a trip she or my family could make often. Much like Harriet’s mother in The Fifth Child, she did come stay with us for several months when I was extremely ill, in order to let my parents keep working, but this still had a toll on all of them. These interviews with my parents not only gave me an insight into the differences between them and myself, but also allowed me to remember and see the connections to the wonderful but flawed people that they came
...ry service were beautiful. Everyone that spoke had something nice to say and somehow I found enough strength in my self to get up and read prayer that his parents had asked me to read.
My mom and dad were my playmates, since there weren’t any other children in the family my age. We did everything together, we swam and picnicked in the summers and played in the snow in the winter. They took me on long trips to different states where we visited all the tourist spots. I was a very busy little boy all the time, but one of my favorite things was to watch my movies and eat my goldfish crackers. As I grew I began to play video games, it is still one of my favorite things to do for relaxation. I also loved to go to my “Da and Ninnys” house. My great grandparents were so good to me, I loved them and they loved me. I got to spend as much time as I wanted with them, they were getting older in age and their health had begun to decline over the years. The same was true with my other great grandmother “memaw”, she was at our house a lot over the years and she doted on me all the time. I had it made back
My most memorable family vacation took place two years ago. We went to Corsica, a French island situated in the south of France right next to Italy. I remembered waking up early excited to visit this new land. Used to take long flights, I was surprised to arrive to the destination after a one-hour flight. Even though the flight was short for me, it was stressful for my mom, she has never felt secured in a plane, probably due to the fact that she is afraid of height. When finally arrived at the destination, the dry and warm weather was there to welcome us. We all felt relief, and knew that this was the beginning of the summer. Excited, we had a lot of activities planned for the few weeks, me and my father could not wait to dive in the clear
As adults, we often use the scientific method, or process of elimination to help explain things that we cannot. Although, as children, we immediately jumped to conclusions no matter how otherworldly or outrageous our explanation. Whether we believed the sound coming from your closet was some type of terrifying monster, or the old woman that paced the side-walk kidnapped children and turned them into soap, explanation was left to our imagination. I can remember quiet a few thoughts like this, but one in particular has always stood out. It was a story my Grandpa told me one summer. A story about how the sound that the trees made when the wind blew was not the cracking of their branches, but was of them weeping.