It was just a little house on a hill in central Mississippi. It was old and run down when I was a child 40 years ago. Covered in light green asbestos shingles, the little house on the hill had a concrete slab porch with a roof that was held up by three skinny columns. The white painted wooden front door had triangle shaped windows that were veiled behind a gray dusty screen door. The house was heated and cooled with window units and a wood burning stove. It was hot in the summer and hotter in the winter. Most of time, it was common to see the storm door wide open with nothing standing between the living room and the great outdoors but the flimsy screen door.

My grandfather, or Papaw, loved to build big powerful fires in the stove so it was an unspoken rule that most family gatherings inevitably wound up on the porch to escape the blistering heat, no matter the time of year. We would all arrange a hodgepodge of lawn chairs of various sizes and shapes and sit on that porch and talk, tell stories, pet the dogs, and laugh. 

When you stepped through the front door, you entered the living room. Along the wall to the left, under the windows, there was a  black leather-like couch. Next to that, in the corner was a table holding odds and ends that had to be accessible in a hurry:  pens, a can of Planters Peanuts, nail polish, Kleenex, a TV guide, a Reader’s Digest, and a pair of strong reading glasses that didn’t seem to belong to anyone in the house. The overstuffed chair next to the table was Granny’s chair. You would find her there, watching her afternoon soaps or working on a crafting project. She had short gray permed hair and large round plastic framed glasses. She would peer at you through those frames, eyes magnified and invite you to sit and talk a while. She had this way of making you feel like she was enthralled by everything you said. She stayed focused to the very end, muttering “huh” or “well” at the right times to reassure you she was hanging on your every word. To have her undivided attention without even trying made my 10 year old self feel like the star of the show. 

Papaw’s chair was situated sort of caddy cornered in the room facing the tv. His chair was brown, leathery and sturdy much like its occupant. Dressed in his typical uniform, button down shirt and cuffed blue jeans, he would sit and sometimes doze while Granny and I talked.   

Behind Papaw’s chair was long narrow kitchen. The long dining table stayed pushed up against the wall as if waiting to fulfill its purpose. When the family was there, the table was pulled to the center of the narrow room with Papaw at the head and Granny seated to his left. The middle seat, to the left of Granny was sometimes reserved for me. To my right was my aunt and then the end was left for my uncle. My Mama and Daddy were on the other side. 

The kitchen area was to the left of the big table. Although small, this was where the magic happened. Granny always did her part; cornbread, sweet tea, peas, and sometimes her baked apples. But the sisters, my mother and aunt were the heavy lifters at meal time. My aunt made the best ham in the world, and my mother was famous for her roast and gravy. 

Preparation for meal time was an endless parade of family carrying dishes and treats to line the kitchen counter tops and table. There was food everywhere. The spread always amazed me, since we were a relatively small family. Granny loved to make candy and sweets, although she wasn’t supposed to eat them. Truth be told she probably snuck a bite or two here and there. I loved those big family gatherings but my favorite times at Granny and Papaw’s was when it was just the three of us. 

The house took on a whole different feel when the hustle and bustle was gone. There was a quite hush that filled the house as the pace slowed and fell back into its daily rhythm. The days started early in that house with Granny and Papaw seated at the table once filled with family. It was just the two of them in the wee hours of the morning, talking in hushed tones, drinking coffee. The mornings always smelled of strong percolator coffee and Papaw’s Swisher Sweets Tip Cigarillos. The bedroom where I slept, was right off the dining room. I could always hear them but could never make out what they were saying. It was almost like they spoke their own language, a language developed after years and years of love, hardship, tragedy, and joy.  As a child, I desperately wanted to know their secrets but was never invited to the conversation. It was only meant for the two of them.

Off the kitchen was a heavy wood door and two steps that lead down the laundry room. It was a large room that wasn’t really part of the main house. Inside there was a huge wall mounted exhaust fan. Granny and Papaw turned the fan on as a means to create a breeze through the house on extra hot days. It was loud and made doors slam shut if they weren’t propped open. As a child, I was always warned to watch myself around the door. It could have proved dangerous for small hands. As a kid, I didn’t understand the concept but was both intrigued and terrified that the doors seemed to slam shut by themselves. The noise of the fan made me hesitant to walk into the laundry room when it was turned on. I had a fear of being sucked into the fan and ejected into the backyard. 

The concrete floor of the laundry room was painted a shade of blue. On the right side were shelves of canned goods Granny had put up from the garden. There were jars and jars of her famous canned green beans. Granny’s freezer was along the wall under the fan. As a kid it fascinated me to see the ice frozen to the side of the chest freezer and I couldn’t help but try to pick it off. It made me think of snow, something I didn’t see too often in Mississippi. The laundry room also housed a washer and eventually a dryer but for a time there was nothing more than a clothesline. It smelled of washing powder and dust and grass. 

One evening, I found my gruff, strong Papaw sitting on the steps of that laundry room. He was barefoot and wearing his blue jeans and undershirt. I was supposed to be in bed but saw the door open and curiosity got the best of me. There on the stair with the sounds of the night playing in the background, there he sat with a tiny puppy in his lap. “Papaw, whatcha doin?”

“I am doctoring this puppy’s eye” he said in a soft voice.

“What happened to it?” 

“His mama bit him and hurt him.”

“Why did she do that?”

“Sometimes beagle mothers do that to their pups. You probably need to go to bed and let Papaw take care of him.”

With that, I turned and walked back to the bedroom. I will never forget that small but meaningful exchange. There was the tallest scariest man I had met at that point in my life showing tenderness and care. He wasn’t a hard man but life forced him to create walls around himself. He let me behind the wall that night and it is the memory of him I love the most. 

Now, the bedroom where I slept became mine and Granny’s room, when I came to visit. The room was relatively small with a large bed and dresser that took up most of the space. Under the window was a ceder chest that housed all sorts of treasures. Along the wall opposite the window were three portraits all in a row of my mom, her sister, and her brother hanging on the wall. I remember starting at them wondering what they were like when they were younger.

That room and that bed was where Granny and I took our mason jars of fire flys, or lightening bugs as well called them under the covers and watched their glow. She told me that she and her sisters did that together when they were little girls. I think of that story every spring when the lightning bugs make their slow flight across the backyard. 

Next to the guest bedroom was the tiny bathroom. It had a wall mounted sink, with a built in soap and toothbrush holder and a medicine cabinet on one wall.  The room always smelled of Irish Spring soap and Swisher Sweets, and matches.  There was a claw foot tub with chipped blue paint and the window in front of the toilet that in the summer was always open with the lace curtain blowing in the breeze.

From the bathroom, Granny and Papaw’s bedroom was to the right and down two steps.  The master bedroom was most likely added because it looked completely different than the rest of the house. It had knotty pine walls and was large in comparison to the other rooms in the house. There was room for a large bed a dresser and a chest of drawers. There was even a small closet that was packed full of clothes. The dresser was where Granny’s pretty things were kept. Her lipstick, perfume and a porcelain hand that held her jewelry were kept on the top of the dresser.

Their bedroom was for the most part off limits. The only times I was allowed in was if I walked down there with Granny or if I was told to take a nap. I could never sleep in there because there was always too much going on in the kitchen to sleep. Right above the headboard was a functioning window complete with a curtain. Since the bedroom was added after the house was built, they never bothered to remove the exterior window. I can remember standing on the bed holding on the window frame listening to the adults until I heard, “you better lay back down on that bed” from Papaw. To which I responded quickly. 

The last room in the house was used for storage but had been my uncle’s bedroom. It was small and rectangular and had an exterior door that I can image was pretty convenient for a wild teenage boy providing easy access to whatever the night held. After he moved out the room held Christmas decorations, books, papers, old clothes, and a single bed. Granny didn’t like for anyone to see the mess in that room. I admit I was curious and had an undeniable urge to rummage around and see what treasures lurked there. I never got the chance. 

Like happens to all families, my grandfather got sick and passed away. Granny lived there for several years alone but eventually it was decided it was no longer safe for her to be by herself. We packed up all the things from the little house on the hill and moved her closer to us.

Although I wasn’t there on moving day, my mom told me Granny never complained about leaving her home. Instead, as they drove away, Granny peered out the passenger window and quietly said, “goodbye, little house.” Those three simple words summed up a lifetime of living there. The little house on the hill was occupied for a time by another family but eventually, those people left.

I heard a few days ago that a tree fell on the house during bad weather. I didn’t expect my response to the news.  

After all, it was just a house. It was just a little house that sat on a hill in central Mississippi. It was nothing special. Passersby probably rarely even gave it a thought.

They probably never knew a man and a woman lived, loved, and laughed there for over 50 years. They never knew about how he grew his garden or doctored sick and ailing animals. They never knew about the three siblings that grew up there. They never thought about the fresh Christmas trees we decorated with family ornaments and silver tinsel icicles. They would never taste the ham or the roast and gravy or smell the percolator coffee. They would never know what it felt like as a child to be completely engulfed in a hug from Granny. They wouldn’t get to see her shoulders and belly shake when she laughed. They would never know the loss or the hardships.  They would never hear her say, “huh” or “well”. 

But I did. 

Even though its been years since I had seen the little old house, when I was told about its current state, my heart was broken. 

But then, I thought about the lives lived there. I walked through the house, smelled the smells, and felt the love all over again, just as I did when I was a little girl.

I realized that even thought the house will eventually be no more, Granny and Papaw never left there in my memories. I can visit anytime I want.

All I have to do is close my eyes.