Just Visiting
When I hear the gentle cooing of mourning doves, I am immediately transported back to my childhood, to those balmy summer mornings in Bloomfield. After we moved to Fairbury, Dan, Laura, and I spent at least a week of every summer with Grandpa and Grandma Wegner. When I was six, they bought the only home they ever owned, a small bungalow on the east edge of town. Grandpa built a wishing well in the back yard, and a two-car garage. His lawn was immaculate. Grandma raised beautiful flowers, including the snowball bushes that I loved, and gorgeous African violets that bloomed prolifically inside, near her dining room window.
Grandma and Grandpa slept in the only downstairs bedroom, which opened just off the living room. In the summers, Laura and I usually had one, large upstairs bedroom to ourselves, while Dan got the other one. But, if Uncle Gary or Aunt Ellen were there, or if Mom stayed part of the time, one of us got to sleep on the "stick bed," an old army cot with a wooden frame and a canvas sling, which was set up in one of the bedrooms. Wherever we slept, we were lulled to sleep by the whirr of the window fans and the cadence of crickets chirping outside.
In the early morning, while the doves were serenading each other, I always helped Grandma hang the laundry outside on the neighbor's clothesline. There's nothing quite like the fresh smell of clean clothes that have dried naturally in the gentle summer breeze. Neither is there anything quite like the mad rush to unclip all of the clothespins and gather the wind-whipped clothing into a wicker clothes basket before a threatening thunderstorm undoes the day's work!
Grandpa was a rural letter carrier. He left the house early in the morning to deliver the mail, but he came home for dinner promptly at noon everyday, right after the whistle blew. Grandma always had dinner on the table, waiting for him. Then, as soon as we finished eating, one of us kids would get to ride with Grandpa for the short afternoon leg of his mail route. (See my post, entitled Delivering the Mail, in the September, 2011, archives, to read more about our exciting rides with Grandpa when he delivered the mail.)
After the lucky one returned from riding with Grandpa on his mail route, Grandma drove all of us to the swimming pool, where we spent a couple of hours, nearly every afternoon.
Grandma worked as the cook at the Lutheran school during the school year, but she had the summers off, of course. She baked bread at home every few days, and coffee cake, too, when we were visiting. We loved to return from the pool, into the cool house, where the smell of freshly baked bread greeted us. My mouth still waters when I think of that wonderful, warm coffee cake, sprinkled lavishly with cinnamon and sugar on top, and slathered with butter for our after-swimming snack.
Since my brother and sister and I were all voracious readers, Grandma often took us to the Bloomfield Public Library to check out books. She also made arrangements for each of us to play with some neighbor kids. I remember spending a lot of time with Carol, who lived on an acreage just outside of town; we whiled away many summer afternoons making hollyhock dolls, or attending a 4H meeting together. Grandma's neighbor and fellow quilter, Mae, had a granddaughter my age, Daphne, who usually came to visit her grandma the same week I was visiting, so we could spend some time together. And, I remember Ruth Ann, who boarded at the Nebraska School for the Deaf during the school year, and lived across the street, with her family, during the summers. Ruth Ann liked to come and sit with me on the front porch when I was playing my guitar. She couldn't hear the music, but she would place her hands on the guitar as I played, feeling the vibrations, and grinning from ear to ear.
Many summers, our visits were timed so we could attend Vacation Bible School at First Trinity Lutheran Church, just a block up the street, where we spent several mornings learning Bible stories, singing, and making crafts. On Sundays, we always walked to Sunday School and church at that same church where Mom had grown up, and where she had attended parochial school for several years. The beautiful church building seemed rather ancient to me, with its vaulted ceiling, narrow, wrap-around balcony, elaborate woodwork, and majestic pipe organ. On Sunday afternoons, we took a drive through the Devil's Nest, a lush, hilly wilderness near the Missouri River; or we took the one-car ferry across the Niobrara River, and drove back to Bloomfield through Yankton.
In the evenings, we sat together on the front porch of the house, enjoying the cool breeze, listening to the crickets, and watching (or chasing) the fireflies blinking in the gathering twilight. Sometimes, we all hopped in the car for a quick trip to the A & W for an ice cream cone or root beer float, just before bedtime.
Someday, I hope my grandchildren, too, can treasure such memories of summer days spent at Grandma's house.
Grandma and Grandpa slept in the only downstairs bedroom, which opened just off the living room. In the summers, Laura and I usually had one, large upstairs bedroom to ourselves, while Dan got the other one. But, if Uncle Gary or Aunt Ellen were there, or if Mom stayed part of the time, one of us got to sleep on the "stick bed," an old army cot with a wooden frame and a canvas sling, which was set up in one of the bedrooms. Wherever we slept, we were lulled to sleep by the whirr of the window fans and the cadence of crickets chirping outside.
In the early morning, while the doves were serenading each other, I always helped Grandma hang the laundry outside on the neighbor's clothesline. There's nothing quite like the fresh smell of clean clothes that have dried naturally in the gentle summer breeze. Neither is there anything quite like the mad rush to unclip all of the clothespins and gather the wind-whipped clothing into a wicker clothes basket before a threatening thunderstorm undoes the day's work!
Grandpa was a rural letter carrier. He left the house early in the morning to deliver the mail, but he came home for dinner promptly at noon everyday, right after the whistle blew. Grandma always had dinner on the table, waiting for him. Then, as soon as we finished eating, one of us kids would get to ride with Grandpa for the short afternoon leg of his mail route. (See my post, entitled Delivering the Mail, in the September, 2011, archives, to read more about our exciting rides with Grandpa when he delivered the mail.)
After the lucky one returned from riding with Grandpa on his mail route, Grandma drove all of us to the swimming pool, where we spent a couple of hours, nearly every afternoon.
Grandma worked as the cook at the Lutheran school during the school year, but she had the summers off, of course. She baked bread at home every few days, and coffee cake, too, when we were visiting. We loved to return from the pool, into the cool house, where the smell of freshly baked bread greeted us. My mouth still waters when I think of that wonderful, warm coffee cake, sprinkled lavishly with cinnamon and sugar on top, and slathered with butter for our after-swimming snack.
Since my brother and sister and I were all voracious readers, Grandma often took us to the Bloomfield Public Library to check out books. She also made arrangements for each of us to play with some neighbor kids. I remember spending a lot of time with Carol, who lived on an acreage just outside of town; we whiled away many summer afternoons making hollyhock dolls, or attending a 4H meeting together. Grandma's neighbor and fellow quilter, Mae, had a granddaughter my age, Daphne, who usually came to visit her grandma the same week I was visiting, so we could spend some time together. And, I remember Ruth Ann, who boarded at the Nebraska School for the Deaf during the school year, and lived across the street, with her family, during the summers. Ruth Ann liked to come and sit with me on the front porch when I was playing my guitar. She couldn't hear the music, but she would place her hands on the guitar as I played, feeling the vibrations, and grinning from ear to ear.
Many summers, our visits were timed so we could attend Vacation Bible School at First Trinity Lutheran Church, just a block up the street, where we spent several mornings learning Bible stories, singing, and making crafts. On Sundays, we always walked to Sunday School and church at that same church where Mom had grown up, and where she had attended parochial school for several years. The beautiful church building seemed rather ancient to me, with its vaulted ceiling, narrow, wrap-around balcony, elaborate woodwork, and majestic pipe organ. On Sunday afternoons, we took a drive through the Devil's Nest, a lush, hilly wilderness near the Missouri River; or we took the one-car ferry across the Niobrara River, and drove back to Bloomfield through Yankton.
In the evenings, we sat together on the front porch of the house, enjoying the cool breeze, listening to the crickets, and watching (or chasing) the fireflies blinking in the gathering twilight. Sometimes, we all hopped in the car for a quick trip to the A & W for an ice cream cone or root beer float, just before bedtime.
Someday, I hope my grandchildren, too, can treasure such memories of summer days spent at Grandma's house.
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