I have this game I play of “let’s pretend.” I pretend that I am at my grandparent’s house in Gadsden, Alabama and I try to picture every detail and I even try to remember the way it smelled there. First there is the boxwood lined brick walkway leading up to the side door; my dad laid those bricks and I will eternally love the smell of boxwoods. In the tiny manicured backyard there is a large pecan tree for climbing, a fig tree, and the pen where Granddaddy’s bird dogs lived. Hours were spent in that little backyard playing childhood games of “let’s pretend” and making mud pies with tiny old tins provided by my grandmother. And then around the side, through a little gate, a banana shrub whose scent has sadly slipped from my memory. I don’t play this pretending game with any other place, nor do I ache for any other place like I do for my grandparent’s house which was sold years ago after my grandfather’s death. I’ll never go back there, and if I did it would be changed, so all I have is what’s stored in my mind. It’s funny because I don’t have an abundance of clear memories of much of my childhood or even my teen years, but I remember what it smelled like in the little closet where my granddaddy stored his fishing tackle and glass bottles of Coca Cola. I also remember the way the inside of the drawers smelled in the little eyeglass table my grandmother stored her sewing notions in. And do you know that when I received this box in the mail from my aunt, the first thing I did was open one of the little boxes of buttons inside and smell it. And yes, it smelled like it did twenty years ago, and yes, it made me cry.
I could write for hours, describing the interior of the house, and what it was like to visit there. Oatmeal with raisins every single morning for breakfast with honey or sugar (I’d like honey from the little bear please), orange juice (always from frozen concentrate and made in one of those glass carafes with oranges painted on it; I liked it best when Granddaddy made it, he made it strong), games of king’s corners played at the yellow kitchen table (why haven’t I taught that game to my children yet?), looking through my grandmother’s make-up drawer in her bathroom, sitting in my granddaddy’s lap while he watched one ball game on the television while listening to another on the radio, playing house in the tiny attic, the way my grandmother lifted the covers for me to climb in next to her when i woke up early in the morning…oh to go back in time for just an hour, what I would give.
My grandmother saved every button, and carefully labeled those that belonged to this sweater or that one.
My kids are still asking to play with the buttons.
Trim and ribbons galore.
Pieces from my Grandfather’s traveling kit complete with “Seaforth men’s talc.”
The little package of my mother’s laundry tags makes me want another little girl to name “Cindy Patterson.”
On the left, you can see the waistbands of two pairs of men’s boxer shorts. My grandmother, who grew up during the Great Depression, learned to save everything that might be useful (I wonder what she had in mind for that old Levi’s tag). Yesterday Larkspur was running around wearing just the elastic waistband from a pair of pantyhose she found in the box.
I remember looking through all these bits of ribbon and trim, and especially those elephants. 
I used to remove all the pins from this little bear’s head, rescuing it from it’s life of being poked. I was thrilled to find it in the box, but for some reason I haven’t removed all the pins yet.
So many little sparkly things, envelopes full of sequins; I wish I knew what my Grandmother had in mind for them.
My Aunties in England had a squat, solid wooden box that sat on the cold bare wood floor of the spare bedroom like a bull dog on guard.During any spare moment when all the adults where occupied, I used to sneak into that room and slide open all the tiny drawers to marvel at the plethora of jewelry inside. Strings of pearls, sparkly beads, coral, turquoise with antiquated golden clasps and yellowing slips of paper with mysterious combinations of numbers jotted down on them, all nested together and entangled, forgotten mostly except by curious American nieces. When that little cottage was sold, I thought of that chest and grieved for it more than any other thing, including the cascade of peppermint that fell over one side of the garden fence and the prim and proper rows of roses that held ranks through the years with all the grave reserve of any soldier in Her Majesty's forces. Funny how the little things are where are memories lie.
Oh, we actually purchased my grandparents' house when my grandmother passed away five years ago. I have little inner struggles about how much to change in order to make the house ours, and how I want to preserve enough that I can still access those place-evoked emotions that were such a significant part of my childhood.
What a lovely post. I'm going to forward it to my daughter who now lives in her grandparents' house (my mother's). We feel so lucky to still have it in our family. My daughter and I have talked many times about the warm, embracing, & almost magical 'power of place' we both feel in that house – still after all these years.Blessings,G
Hi Ginny, I'm your mother's first cousin and was named for your grandmother (Eleanor Joan), my mother's oldest sister. I called them Sista and Uncle Woody and I spent two weeks every summer at 951 South 5th Street playing with Susan and Cindy and swimming in your granddaddy's motel pool. I, too, have such fond memories of their home and dream of it very often. I loved Sista and Uncle Woody so much and can still hear their laughter. Thank you for the memory.Love, Joan Benson
I have vivid memories of my grandparent's home too. I should write it all down someday… my grandma passed away last year, so it is too hard for me yet.I'm sorry to hear about your childhood difficulties, but how wonderful to have a place that was stable and homey.
Ginny – you are such a magnificent writer. How many writers reduce me to tears – real, sobbing tears? Not many! Yes; I suppose you inspired me to "walk" through my grandpa's house, too… but, not before I went with you and I could see – and I swear! – smell it all. Your story is a lot like my husband's. His grandparents saved him. I just started to write a novel myself in reply, but erased it (maybe in an e-mail) – see? Another result of you being such a good writer – you inspire. I will read this post again.
Diane, some of it I will use, and some I won't. So far, I am not using stuff like this in my sewing. I haven't gotten that far yet.
Wow, Ginny, what a treasure. I think if I had gotten a package like that I would be savoring it in much the same way (pretty similar relationship to my grandparents). BUT, are you torn as to whether or not to use some of the items on your sewing projects? I think I would be torn.
That is so awesome that you got these treasures. This post made me tear up. I am an emotional wreck right now. But, something about your words….
beautiful post – the photos with your words speak volumes
Such sweet, sweet memories. Thanks for sharing them with us.
Thank you for sharing your most precious memories.Christina
What a precious post. And I bet going through all those things brought such memories flowing. Thanks for sharing and the pictures are beautiful. I have such fond memories of one of my grandmothers and I treasure the few things that I have of hers.
Thank you so much Ginny, for taking me back to my childhood memories of my precious grandparents' home. I am going to have to do a post like yours sometime soon. We are blessed granddaughters.Hugs,Carolee