The Sleepover

“Button, button, who’s got the button?”

My Great-Grandma Deloris Karels repeated this simple phrase as my cousin, sister, and I slowly walked her living room searching for that button. All she did was hide one somewhere and yet, we were so excited to find it.

“Maren is getting colder. Oh, Mackenzie is getting very hot!”

There was no special prize for finding the button and as it was only the four of us in Grandma K’s apartment, there was no audience to applaud our triumphs. Sometimes the winner was allowed to hide the button next, but the three of us usually let Grandma K hide it again. While she did, we would wait in her powdery perfumed bedroom. My sister couldn’t contain her excitement from the suspense and would bury her face in the bed. My cousin and I liked to look at all the old pictures that were stuck in the vanity mirror above Grandma’s silver backed hairbrush, comb, and mirror set.

When Button, Button finally lost its charm, Grandma K had many more old-fashioned games to entice us. She was always fond of games. Three other elderly ladies lived in the building and they all often met Grandma K for a game of cards. Naturally, we had already played a few games of Go Fish and Old Maid. Caffeine from the coffee Grandma K had let us have—or should I say creamer and sugar with a splash of coffee—pulsed through us late into the night. My cousin, sister, and I were meant to be having a special sleepover at Grandma K’s apartment, but it seemed more like we were being encouraged to test our limits without the supervision of our parents.

The caffeine made us all the more eager to try more of Grandma K’s games. We moved on to Clothespin Drop, which is exactly like what it sounds. Each of us took a turn during a round in which we tried to drop old clothespins into a large mason jar from varying heights. First we knelt on a chair and then later we stood on it to make aiming more difficult. I don’t remember who was better that night, but I do remember how much fun the games were.

Once we finally started to tucker out, Grandma K played on her air organ—or did she play some harmonica? She was very musically talented and could play equally well on both instruments. We didn’t want the night to end, but it had to. The three of us squeezed into the big bed in Grandma K’s spare room and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of our somewhat rebellious night, one of the best sleepovers we had all had.

At Grandma K's apartment, 2001.
Me, Grandma K, William, Mom, Maren

Scenes of Summer

I smile at the smell of freshly cut grass and soil in the air. I am instantly transported back to Minnesota. In my imagination, the grass is thick and green, a lush carpet beneath my toes; not spotty yellow patches that are scorched under the Arizona sun or dying of thirst in the California drought. But the smell I'm thinking of--USC Facilities Management didn’t put that scent on the air. It was my Dad and his small gas-powered lawn mower. It was always him versus the dandelions, though I never understood why they need to go when the marigolds and roses are so well tended.

In a moment, I can be back on that lawn, kneeling in my blue Sleeping Beauty nightgown, trying to perfect the quintessential princess pose. There's my tree swing—before my cousin broke the branch—and the many fallen crabapples from the trees that line the chain-link fence. I climb the bright red porch in Rochester to sit on the striped lounge. I like to sit here. The puffy plastic fabric feels cool in the humidity. I study the nest where we can usually watch the baby birds call for their mom. I taste freshly shucked sweet corn.

More scenes from summer: My sister and I are covered in chalk. I can smell the powdery substance on my forearms. But we are never close to being done. She races our Fisher Price Cozy Coupe down the colorfully doodled “street” in a manner and speed that would have impressed the Flintstones. Our feet are dull grey by this time--a combination of too many colors (and dirt) after walking the chalked rooms of our dream homes and hopscotch halls. But we've finally connected our half of the street mural to the neighbor's, Rachel, my friend who is my age. Tomorrow, we plan to expand even further. Covered in color and designs, the entire neighborhood is a child-artists' colony, rivaled in décor only by the striking kolams of Indian festivals.

And more: I'm back in Lester Prairie where my brother, sister, and I run and play barefoot in the grass, retrieving all manner of summer toys from the musty wooden tool shed. I take a long time to pick out the next activity just because I like to stand inside the shed and breathe its earthy air. I return with hula-hoops and another onset of itches from fresh mosquito bites. But we end up playing a game that involves weaving though the clean towels and sheets on the line as they flap in the breeze. If only detergent bottles could really trap that scent. Purist that I am, I’m always left disappointed in my apartment laundry room.

When we become tired, we flop down on our backs to watch the clouds roll overhead. The mellow tones of the various wind chimes are soon overwhelmed by the sounds of conversation. The rest of the family has arrived. I smell citronella candles and calamine lotion. The sickly pink-purple of Benadryl slides down my throat and coats my tongue in a furry sort of way. But I’ll do anything to reduce the swelling of those mosquito bites. “It’s because you’re sweet” doesn’t make me feel better. But the summer snack assortment does. I return for slice after slice of summer sausage, handfuls of Old Dutch Dill Pickle flavored chips, and especially to the tins of sweet and dense O’Henry bars.

I could simply call my mom for the O'Henry Bars recipe and mix up a batch in my Los Angeles apartment. But would it really taste like summer in Minnesota? Not a chance.