42 Maple Street

Before Grandma K moved into her cozy apartment, she lived in this big blue house on Maple Street. It looked so welcoming with its wrap-around porch. When we’d visit, we would have to squeeze between the piles of magazines and old memorabilia to sit on her comfy chairs. She was a bit of a pack rat, but in a cool way that always meant you’d see something interesting, like a pair of wooden Dutch shoes that happened to be sitting in the doorway of the bedroom upstairs. The guys on American Pickers would have loved the sentimental hodgepodge and Grandma K, for she was one special lady with a lot of moxie.

You always knew Great-Grandma K had just arrived because you could hear the adults talking that she hadn’t called before heading over. “She shouldn’t be driving anymore, especially in the rain.” But there Grandma K would be in the driveway; stepping out of her teal sedan with a plastic kerchief tied around her head to protect her freshly colored white-blonde curls from the weather. As soon as the adults finished fretting and scolding, she would usually turn to the nearest great-grandchild and confide “what a bunch of turds” with a laugh.

After she passed away, my Aunt Kristi sent a box of things Grandma K had left for my mom. But there were other interesting trinkets in the box representative of Grandma K that my aunt had chosen as remembrances. For instance, she sent my brother a small porcelain cat the size of a silver dollar. Its belly was flat and had “Gum Parker” painted on it, just in case he ever needed a temporary place for his chewing gum.

But the items within the blue house weren’t its only attractive quirks. Right off the kitchen was a door that led down to the cellar. One of my older cousins, Breanna, used to scare her sister and I with descriptions of what it looked like down there. She made it out as the creepiest place in town. According to her, the cellar had walls and shelves carved right into the dirt beneath the house. The shelves were also covered in cobwebs and you had to watch out for spiders since it was so dark down there. It doesn’t sound as scary any more, perhaps she was telling the truth. There was something oddly exciting about having that spooky door always waiting for us to open it and peer into the darkness. Either way, the descriptions scared Mackenzie and I so much so that we didn’t dare go down into the cellar that summer. 

Grandma Joyce labeled this with:
 "Karina, the barmaid at Grandma K's, 2000"

Then there was the outhouse in the backyard. It was unused, of course, and had been for quite some time. The outhouse was a funny relic of the past, which for some reason was curiously alluring to all of us great-grandchildren. When we’d all open the wooden door and look in, we’d see the small bench with the boarded up hole. Grandma K had still kept a stack of outdated magazines inside of it as a joke; one day someone might need reading material when they are out there.

This was the lady who let my Mom and Aunt Kristi run unaccompanied at a very young age down the alley behind her house to Schubert’s, the local grocery store. After slipping them some extra coins from her top drawer for more sweets, Grandma K would hop on the party line to let her sister Edna Schubert know the little girls were on their way. Edna indulged them like her sister did; she would greet my Mom and aunt, allow them to fill up a paper bag with candy and would then slip the girls more than they had coins for. After sending them back down the alley, Edna would let Grandma K know they were back on their way via the same party line.

Though Schubert’s was no longer around when my siblings, cousins, and I were little, Grandma K always had snacks around for us. I always remember small bowls of nuts and candy she would leave out while we were playing games with her. In between turns of Old Maid, you could find a treat at arm’s length in a leaf-patterned crystal dish without even looking. You always wanted to be watching your game too, because though Grandma K loved to play, she was always too excited to maintain a poker face. As soon as she found the Old Maid card in her hand, she’d let out a little groan. When you were picking from her hand, the smile on her face desiring you to take it off of her would signal which card was actually safe to take.

Grandma K and Mom playing Old Maid.
Grandma K's new apartment.

Playing cards on another visit in the summer.
Note the shared moment between Grandma K & Maren,
 who both know Grandma K has the Old Maid card.

Other games were easier for Grandma K to win because her enthusiasm wouldn’t risk her success. One winter, she taught my sister and I to play dice. You should have seen her excitement when my Grandpa Larry suggested we raise the stakes and gamble for candy. Each time the dice spilled from the cup, Grandma K would react appropriately with a disappointed “oh no!” or a celebratory hoot. Games always turned into a vocal affair when she, Grandpa Larry, and Maren were all playing. They were so invested in the play that the entire suspense of the game seemed to come from their own enthusiasm.

Learning dice at the blue house.

Behind its lace curtains, 42 Maple Street had an air of magic and mystery. Chewing on the chocolate cigars Grandma K kept around for all her great-grandchildren, I would sit staring and wondering at everything within the house. Why were these little stuffed animals or those wooden shoes here? How did they get there? Was there more past that spooky cellar door?  And why did this old house always feel so full? Sitting and wondering more than 10 years later, I realize that in the center of it all, between all of the visiting family and nostalgic belongings, was Grandma K radiating her spunky joyful spirit that filled any empty place in her home.

When Someone is in Your Heart

Four generations at my Baptism
Grandma K, Kim, Karina, Grandma Joyce
1991, St. Paul Evangelical Lutheran Church

Something is terribly wrong. You hear your mom crying on the phone in the study. Your dad is in there as well, but neither you nor your brother and sister can make out through the closed glass door whether he is crying as well. You start to feel sick. Someone has died.

These aren’t the kind of tears your mom sheds sometimes when saying goodbye to relatives at the airport. You’re brought back to a late night years ago just before the flight back to Phoenix. As you all had waved to your grandparents before disappearing through the security checkpoint, Mom had begun to cry. She made no sound as they rolled down her cheeks; she simply picked up her purse where the x-ray had spit it back out. It had felt like a beautiful scene in a movie: the loving goodbye, marked by a daughter’s tears who would wait another six months before seeing her parents again. You remember how you saw her tears return upon takeoff in the dark cabin. While she stared out over snow-covered Minneapolis, you started to silently cry, too.

But these weren’t those kinds of tears. It wasn’t a moving scene in that sense. In fact, your mom looked like a mess. Someone has died; you know it. You didn’t think it could happen again so soon. Grandpa Murl, your dad’s dad, had just passed away the year before. How could you bear losing someone else?

You sit on the leather couch, tense, and wait for the news. Your parents have finally left the study and gather you and your siblings in the living room. You look at your dad. He might have cried, but you’re not sure. Either way, he’s able to keep himself composed while it takes your mom a while to speak through her tears.

“Grandma K passed away.”

The sickening feeling in your stomach gets worse. You were right. You didn’t want to be, but you were. You’ve just lost someone else in your family and you’re halfway across the country from her. Your cheeks flush, your neck and chest burn, and you’re sure your ears are the same flushed shade of red. You were too busy with your racing thoughts to notice the tears running down your cheeks until you feel their coolness down your neck.

Your sister is sitting next to you. She’s already mildly sobbing. On the other side of her, your little brother is also crying. It seems so much worse to watch them cry as they try to wipe away their tears with their glasses on. After what seems like forever, everyone reaches a melancholic level of calm. Your parents return to the study to start booking a flight back to Minnesota for the funeral.

You withdraw to the sanctuary of your room and close the door, shutting out the rest of your grieving family. After you splash cool water on your face, neck, and ears, you grab a wad of Kleenexes from the box above the toilet. Then you slide the door closed to the bathroom you share with your sister, cutting her off as well. You don’t mean to be rude, but you’re already emotionally exhausted. Seeing others grieve only deepens your own and you can’t bear it. You’d rather be alone in your room.

The funeral date is set. Your flight is scheduled. Before you begin to pack, you reluctantly unpack your duffel bag that was all ready for your trip to San Luis Obispo, California. You and two of your best friends were going to celebrate your summer birthdays over the weekend. While there’s no question that you want to be there for your grandma, you’re so disappointed over the trip and how unfair life can be, that you start to cry all over again. You pick up your phone to let your friends know. It’s times like these when you thank God for texting, because you’d never be able to get through a phone call right now.

Even while on the usual drive into town, everything feels surreal. It’s like a bad dream you still haven’t woken up from. You can’t decide if it’s better that you know what will happen at the funeral. The service, the wake, the tears, and the endless sympathetic looks from everyone in town who knows your family, which is everyone. Back in the car, your chest starts to constrict as you hold back the tears that are threatening to fall. Not here, not now. You haven’t even seen any of your extended family, let alone arrived within the town limits.

Grandma K’s funeral isn’t held at St. Paul’s. At first you find that off-putting. Does an unfamiliar funeral home help alleviate the grief? Your family doesn’t enter the church through its nostalgic scented coatroom to the sound of the church bells. Instead you walk up a few steps into a house you’ve never seen in your life. But as you walk around, led by the kind staff, you wonder how a funeral home could feel so instantly cozy and warm. Though it is used for a much different purpose now, the house retains its original plan. The service and wake are held in a large room to the left, perhaps once a large formal living room. Back out and down the wallpapered hallway is the kitchen where refreshments and food await. People quietly chat and reminisce in yet another room off the hallway. Later in the afternoon, when you almost forgot where you were, you take a moment to silently approve the house’s success in feeling almost like your family’s home.

For you, the worst part of the day is when you go up to the casket to pay your respects. Seeing Grandma K in the casket will make everything finally feel real. As you wait behind your parents in line, you become anxious. You’re scared the mortician couldn’t capture Grandma K’s spunk in her still frame; you want to keep that last memory of her lively. As you finally step up to the casket and peer over the side, you begin to silently cry. Part of you wishes Grandma K would turn the corner and wobble in through the crowd, leaving you and the rest of the mourners staring at an uncanny wax figurine. But she is lovely lying there as though she was sleeping. Her white blond curls look like she just stepped out of her beauty parlor. A smile escapes as you think she’ll no longer need that plastic kerchief to protect them from the rain.

The next few days after the funeral aren’t so bad, though a melancholic haze seems to surround your family. When you laugh with your cousins, you all pause awkwardly because it doesn’t feel right to be having fun. Your family is constantly gathered together. Sometimes tears well up in someone’s eyes but they’re overcome through sharing stories about Grandma K over hearty dishes and desserts. No sooner than the table prayer ends, three adults simultaneously announce Grandma K’s version of “Bon Appetit”: “Dig in!” Later, someone drops a utensil and immediately others shout, “Company is coming!” just as she always did. Though Grandma K isn’t physically present, her words echo throughout your gatherings, bringing both tears and deep laughter.

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