I cannot spend enough time at my grandma’s. Although I have been there many times before, my first memory of my most favorite place to be is fighting with my cousin, Chelsie, over the swings in her backyard. We had gotten tired of playing magazine sellers, so we went outside. Our bare feet smacked the ground as we raced outside to see who could reach the middle swing first. Everyone wanted the middle swing because it sat high enough so that your feet wouldn’t drag in the dirt as you swung. No one wanted the other one. If chance had it that you ended up with it, you had to brace yourself for the blow of slamming against the wooden beam that separated it from the other swings. Even though I got to the swing first, as I usually did, I gave it to Chelsie anyway because I felt bad as I watched her long, dangly legs brush against the dirt as she headed for the sky.

When I walk through my grandma’s door I always smell something good cooking. There’s always the aroma of sweet deserts and good country food. The first things I notice as soon as I enter the front door are the three pictures of the woman and her child seated at the piano. They are hung behind the TV that has been around longer than I have. I kick my sandals off, and I’m home. It’s always the perfect cozy temperature in her house. Never too cold and never too hot. The colors of the walls and furniture calm the nerves and make it easy to fall asleep just about anywhere in the house. Most of my weekends in my childhood were and still are spent at my grandma’s. There’s just something about being there that keeps bringing me back. The best part about being there is all the memories I walk away with.

The wonderful thing about my grandma is that she understands the world of make-believe. At home, a living room is just a living room, but at grandma’s, a living room transforms into the best playhouse ever! My cousins and I pulled at all the dusty sheets our hands could touch. We needed just the right ones for our clubhouse. After gathering all the sheets, Sydney, Courtney, and I began to resituate the couches, chairs, and pillows to accommodate our needs for the club. I remember my grandma having pursed lips and shaking her head as she watched us rearrange her living room. She didn’t say anything because as long as we were occupied, we weren’t bothering her while she cooked. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed all the clothespins my 10 year old hands could grab.

“Now Abby, you can’t be usin’ all those clothes pins cuz they’ll break, and then I won’t have anymore!” grandma said sternly.

“We won’t break ‘em, but we need ‘em for our clubhouse, or it won’t work.” I pleaded.

She didn’t answer, but I knew by the look on her face it was a “yes”. We draped sheets over cushions and arm rests and pinned them down. By the time we were done, it was no longer a living room. It was a secret place where boys weren’t allowed, and three little girls reigned supreme as famous celebrities…or any other profession we chose for the day.

As I get older, I realize that the days of childhood are fleeting, and so are the days of my precious grandma. Memories of Sunday dinners, backyard camp outs, and weekends at her house are moments I will guard as treasures. Grandma’s house invites me in with the smell of Estee Lauder Youth Dew and the comfort and security of home. Home may be where the heart is, but so many of my wonderful childhood memories flow out of my time at grandma’s house.