West of Toledo

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The Catalpa trees are still there.  Those trees marked the entrance to the driveway, provided flowers for a little girl’s hair, and many a bowl of green beans to go with mud pie dinners.  They still grace the entrance to what was once Grandma Burton’s house.  As I think of turning up the driveway between those two trees, I can still feel the excitement, knowing there would be cousins and fun waiting at the top of the hill.

Once the car was parked, my brother and I climbed out of our two-door, gray, 1952 Ford, onto the dusty rock drive.  The geese rushed toward us, hissing their evil hiss.  Grandma stood at the back door.  She opened the screen to let us in, while simultaneously shooing flies.  We hurried so as not to allow too many flies to sneak in with us.  Grandma Burton wasn’t the kind of grandma to scoop you up in her arms and give you a big hug and kiss, yet we all knew she was happy to see us.

We stepped inside the kitchen with its big white sink.  The sink held an enamel covered basin for hand washing.  The water was often already used, but it wasn’t changed until it was dirty.  No one worried about germs back then, water was a precious commodity and not to be wasted.  A bucket of water and a community dipper, sat nearby.  We often stopped for a cool drink before heading for the dining room.  Today, the thought of drinking from a community dipper would make me think twice, but back then it was just the way things were done.  I can still remember when the cook stove still burned wood and the freezer inside the refrigerator was only big enough for two ice trays.

During baseball season, you could usually find Grandpa Burton sitting in a wooden chair, staring out the north window, while listening to the game on the radio.  The radio sat on top of a small smoking table, which contained Grandpa’s Bull Durham bags and roll-your-own cigarette papers.  We would exchange a few brief words, while I lifted the table cloth to see what was leftover from breakfast or lunch.  We knew there would be something tasty under there; bacon, soup beans, or if the leftovers didn’t appeal to your taste buds, you could always find the makings for a jelly sandwich.

The living room had a room-sized wool rug on the floor and a warm morning stove along the east wall.  During the winter you could see the curtains blowing in the wind coming in around the windows.  To get warm, you had to stand next to the stove, while rotating from front to back.  By the time your back was all warm and toasty; your front would be freezing, time to rotate.  I remember lying on the floor, on my stomach, watching I Love Lucy on black and white television.  This is also the room where the men played penny poker.  When I close my eyes, I can still hear the pennies bounce on the coffee table and smell the strong scent of tobacco smoke. 

The living room had a door leading into the entry hall.  In the summer, the door was propped open with an iron frog.  I wonder whatever happened to him?  I’m sure someone gave him a good home. 

Inside the entry hall were the stairs leading upstairs.  During family dinners, the stairs doubled as a seating area for the younger members of the family.  The older you were, the higher your place on the steps.  There was a little door beneath the stairs.  That door led into a dark, musty storage room.  If you were brave enough to go inside, you could feel your way through to the far side of the room and find yourself back in the kitchen.  Hopefully, the kitchen would be empty, because going into that old dark room was forbidden.

Driving down Route 121 west of Toledo, I still look for Grandma’s house.  The Catalpa trees are still there, but the house is gone, as are its residents.  Even knowing nothing remains the same, I can’t help but look up the hill.  I still hope I’ll see that big old two-story house with Grandma standing at the kitchen door, waiting to let us in.