Visiting

When I was little, sometimes my mom would take me along with her “for coffee with Grandma.” We would stop in at my Grandma Jo’s house on a Saturday so my mom could chit chat and have coffee with her.

At least that is what I remember.

Saturday at Grandma’s house was different than Sunday at Grandma’s house.

Sunday was full and noisy.

Sunday’s dinner table was pulled out with all the table leaves in covered in a vinyl table cloth that could easily be wiped down with a wet washcloth.

Sunday was warm–sometimes too warm–from the oven being on and all the bodies squished around the table reaching over one another to fill plates.

Sunday was filled with laughter.

Saturdays were slower and quieter. The table was small and round with a lace overlay and a green leafy centerpiece. It was comfortably warm with the smell of fresh coffee. Sometimes a radio played quietly, but not always.

Visiting on a Saturday felt special. My mom and my Grandma would sit at the table cradling mugs of coffee as they talked about work and sisters and cousins and acquaintances. I would sit quietly–or not so quietly–swinging my legs gulping my juice or soda and munching a cookie.

These visits weren’t about me–my mom would go with or without me. But being there meant that I had proven that I could behave that day. That I could be a partner for my mom for “running errands.” It was something special that I got to do with my mom and with my grandma. Even though I was usually just sitting there while they chatted, they were allowing me to be part of their visit.

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When I was little, sometimes my dad would take me along with him to pay a visit to my Grandpa and Grandma. My grandparents were very routine about their coffee breaks. There was one in the morning and one at 3pm. They drank coffee all day, but those were the times they would sit down with their coffee. So that is when we stopped by.

My dad would lean back in his chair and talk with my grandparents about our small town and the people and doings in it. Between the three of them it seemed they knew everyone in our town and all the history behind it.

Grandma always had a cookie jar with Oreos. She always had chocolate milk–the kind you make with whole milk mixed with Hershey’s syrup. The best kind.

The kitchen wasn’t fancy; there wasn’t a table cloth or silverware out. But there was still so much to look at.

The window sills were filled with knickknacks of all shapes and sizes.

There were pretty colored vases and glasses in the window by the sink that caught the sun.

In the fall there was always a turkey in the window behind my grandpa’s spot at the table.

There was a huge jar in the corner for spare change.

It always smelled like food and coffee–like someone was about to get a delicious meal, even in the middle of the morning on a Saturday.

Again, these visits rarely focused on me; I was just there because dad let me be his sidekick for the day. But they made me feel special, like I was getting a history lesson about my own town and family. Occasionally I would inject a question and my dad or grandpa would look up, squint a little in thought, and begin to discuss possible answers to my question, which would send them on a whole other tangent.

It was where I learned to appreciate coming from a small town.

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I visit my mom and dad often. I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point I didn’t like going for too long without seeing my parents. My mom and I exchange emails about something or other about once a week, but if it starts to feel like I haven’t seen her in person for awhile, something feels…off.

When I have nothing pressing on a Saturday, I’ll throw a kid or three into the car and head over to see my parents.

Every single time I drive up my parents’ long, winding, gravel driveway, it feels like coming home. How  many times have I gone up that driveway by car or by foot or by bicycle?

At the top of that driveway is the house I grew up in; the house my parents still live in. And inside that house, when my mom knows I’m coming over with a kid (or three), she has baked something. Usually. Not always, but lately yes. This weekend it was fresh gingersnaps to bring to my grandpa and because she knew I was coming over for coffee and would have Charlie and Alice with me.

My dad always razzing the kids making them overly hyper and hiccuppy from laughter. My mom always has coffee because they drink it all day long. She even buys creamer because she knows I like my coffee as non-coffeeish as possible. She encourages my second (and third) cookie that I help myself to.

Charlie finds my brothers’ old matchbox cars; Alice finds my old dolls and strollers. They wander in and out of our conversations.

I wonder what they will remember about visiting grandma and grandpa.

Now that I am an adult, I know taking me along when they visited my grandparents was because grandparents love to see the grandkids, but the visits themselves were for my parents. Somehow we don’t grow out of needing our parents.

Those Saturdays of visiting my grandparents were really laying the groundwork for me for what a parent/child relationship could be once both the parent and the child become adults. I’m grateful for that, because I very much enjoy the relationship I have with my parents now.

And I hope I am making warm memories for my own children with these visits.

Left to right: My Grandma Jo (my mom’s mom). I’m the one on the left in the braids. My Grandma R (my dad’s mom). I’m the pre-teen mess on the left. My parents with all seven of their grandchildren last Christmas (Charlie is next to my dad; Eddie is in the front left with Alice in his lap)

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About Katie

Just a small town girl...wait no. That is a Journey song. Katie Sluiter is a small town girl, but she is far from living in a lonely world. She is a middle school English teacher, writer, mother, and wife. Life has thrown her a fair share of challenges, but her belief is that writing through them makes her stronger.

Comments

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