Our Grandparents’ Home

January, 2016 was a month that had to be wrestled and flung to the ground. When it was good, the snow floated down lazily and soft under a sky the color of a grey kitten. I made pear biscotti and baked bread that I shared with the birds and squirrels. When January is mean, the nights are long, dark, and cold in old houses and buildings across town. The sharp wind rattles the old windows and sneeks in through gaps around doors. There was 1/8th of an inch of ice on the interior side of the steel door and windows. Inside, I wore big sweaters, snow boots and a scarf around my neck.  Now, we have stomped on old January and walked over it.

The shop was closed for the whole month. Customers dwindle down to one or two a day when the sidewalks are covered with ice and snow. Some building owners don’t shovel or de-ice their sidewalks because they aren’t here. Even with a #10 shovel, I couldn’t break the sidewalk ice after sprinkling ice melt on it the night before. I held on to the buildings when I walked to the mailbox and took ginger steps. Two shopkeepers slipped on the ice; one broke her leg. One day, I went inside Sweet Angeline’s Gourmet Bakery and Cafe and spend a comfortable hour with my friends, Angie and Jim, with a huge, steaming cup of their fabulous coffee. It is the most welcoming place with pastry worthy of a Parisian boulangerie. Walking home while reading their new menu, that I will post under the glass on the shop desk, I am again amazed that we have such a cosmopolitan cafe in this little town of 2000 people.

Now on to February and I think we are going to have an early spring. The sun is out again and it feels strong. Almost all of the ice is gone from the sidewalks on the north side of the street. We have three new (and interesting) shops in Richmond.

This post is about something fabulous that happened. Last fall, I was walking around the corner of my building, carrying, with my friend, Roger, a huge replica of someone’s farmhouse that I bought at a barn sale. The house was quite big and a man, walking to a restaurant across the street with his wife, stepped up to help carry it. Everyone walked into my building and the house was set down. The man, Ron Warwick and his wife, stayed for a minute to talk and as one topic led to another I mentioned that I wished I had a replica of my grandparents house. It had recently been torn down in Northbrook, Illinois. A developer was building a McMansion on the property as happens everywhere now.   Ron said that he would turn the house that we were carrying, into a house as close to my grandparents’ house as was possible. I don’t know what kind of a look I had on my face, but I think it looked like a big question mark. I said, “Why would someone do that for a complete stranger?” I realized later that he is simply a selfless artist who must create, for not only did Ron with the help of his friend, Rich, make me a replica of my grandparents’ house, but built a completely new house,  from the ground up.

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We sat down only a few times and talked about the house. On Google Earth, we watched as the last remaining images of it disappeared forever. Ron whipped rulers around and did some kind of complicated mathematical and geometrical figures in his head while I tried to remember where the windows belonged. Then he started telling me, from his calculations, where the doors and windows belonged.

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Nothing like this ever happened to me before, nor will it, I expect, ever happen again. I told Ron, and it is true, that I like the house as much as I liked my brand new 1972 convertible Mustang on the day that I got it. Every time I look at the house, I get a joyous and magical feeling.

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Now, the real house, our grandparents and their children are gone. And just as they had to go on living as they lost their loved ones, our generation must go on, too. It is still hard. But, we were lucky to have all those people once and I was lucky when I came around that corner and, just by chance, met Ron Warwick.

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Television Room

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Some nights, after I climb up the 17 stairs to where I sleep, I make a mad dash to get under the feather blanket where it is cozy and warm. And sometimes, in the dark, I stand by the house and angle a flashlight to shine in one of the windows, just as the street lamp did and I can hear Grandma and Grandpa, in the den, singing the songs of their youth, following the lyrics on the television screen  as Mitch Miller* smiles and waves his hands in time to the music.

*In the early 1960s, Miller became a household name with his NBC television show Sing Along with Mitch, a community-sing program featuring him and a male chorus: an extension of his highly successful series of Columbia record albums of the same name. In keeping with the show’s title, viewers were presented with lyrics at the bottom of the television screen, and while many insist there was a bouncing ball to keep time, Miller correctly said this was something they remember from movie theater sing-alongs and cartoons.

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Ron and Rich standing next to the replica they built of my grandparents’ home. Push down on the walls shown here and they pop open automatically to reveal the rooms within.

 

Time Doesn’t Let You Catch Your Breath

“Time has this way of slowing down and speeding up, depending on how it feels.”

– Carol Lynch Williams, Waiting

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8:00 am, March 5:  I took this picture standing at the back of the building in the doorway a few moments ago. Just what we needed, a little more snow. The town hasn’t taken the Christmas garland down and it still looks cute. See the wooden bridge?

Yesterday, I painted another wall in the shop. (There is only enough time to paint one wall a week.) And then I actually looked at, and realized, that I have not polished the vault door in a couple of years. Awwhh – come on!

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This door installed during the 1929 remodeling of the bank is stainless steel. They should have named it something a bit lighter on the stainless and a little heavier on the steel. Everyone touches it and every fingerprint rusts. I met a man who told me he came in once a month and polish this door when the bank was open. Oh, where is he now? I polished it for a couple of hours yesterday and then decided to ask if anyone knows if there is a heavy-duty commercial product or homemade concoction that works. Anyone?

This is a job that is pretty hard to get excited about. Then, I closed the door and looked at the other side.

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Awhhhh, come on!

Whatever you are doing today…I’m glad you don’t have this project ahead of you. On the upside, it makes everything else I have to do this week look like a birthday party.

As I was running all the things I have to do through my mind like a silent film, I picked up this old photograph from a pile near the vault door. I was thinking about time and never having enough of it.

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Can you even imagine how long it took this young woman to get dressed the morning of this photograph session? Her collar, starched and then ruffled with a special iron, would take a lot of time in upkeep. The little curls framing her face were pressed with a curling iron heated over a kerosene lamp. And she had to go out and pick those daisies.

I’m wearing blue jeans, my hair is in a ponytail and I didn’t take the time to put make-up on. I just didn’t have the time. I’d better get to polishing.