She had hair white as snow, and she was short, with a slight bend forward in her back from years of leaning over a counter and stove preparing meals.
She always wore a flowery dress buttoned down the front, or so it seemed. Her voice was worn out. It had a sort of raspiness to it. Her face was wrinkled and smooth. It was a wear-and-tear look that gave her the appearance of having lived a long life, but also that she washed her face every morning and evening, too. She cared about presenting herself in a regal manner.
We’d walk that quarter of a mile down the road some summer evenings to visit her. The sun would already be setting behind the hill alongside of the house, leaving it in the early evening shadows. The front of her house faced South, perpendicular to the dirt road, and parallel to the highway on the other side of the hill.
We’d walk up the concrete steps, past the metal railing, open the screen door with the big “D” in the middle, and give the old door a few raps. We’d holler out who we were, and she’d recognize our voices. She’d holler back at us, “Come on in!”
Every time I entered that front door, I hoped to the high heavens that I would smell the distinct delectable waft of her homemade bread in the oven. Or fresh sugar cookies.
She always kept a big glass jar of sugar cookies for us. We’d help ourselves.
These sugar cookies are not like what is bought in the store. These did not have frosting. The frosting is a travesty on a sugar cookie. It’s a violation and an offense to such a precious treat. Her sugar cookies were thin, cooked crispy, and I never understood why they were called sugar cookies. I never saw any sugar on them. And they weren’t overly sweet.
And if she was making homemade bread, I’d sneak into the kitchen and tear off massive chunks of dough and savor that sacred blessedness.
I remember Easter egg hunts. The hiders loved to hide the eggs amongst the daffodils. She had so many daffodils. If I remember correctly, they lined the sidewalk to the mailbox, lined the West side of the garden, surrounded the tree stump by the driveway, and just popped up randomly throughout the yard.
There was a tree on the East side of her house with a bird feeder dangling from a wire wrapped around a limb. I was always scared that one time when she’d go out to fill it up, she’d fall over the roots poking up through the ground.
An old orange chair was in the far corner of the living room on the left. I think it was vinyl. I seemed to always stick to it. There was a vinyl footstool, maybe two. She had a wooden tray-like table where she kept her maroon, large-letter Bible.
At one point, she got a recliner with a switch that raised the chair up or lowered it down. Her joints no longer functioned as they had in times past.
Off to the side of the living room, to the immediate left inside the front door, was her bedroom. You had to walk through her room to get to the other bedroom. You also had to walk through her room to go upstairs, on those rickety, creaky stairs. It seems that there were two beds up there: One on the North side and one on the South side — those sides were separated by the railing lining the stairwell.
And all of her beds were adorned with the crowing jewel, the feather pillow. I spent the night down there several times. I never could understand why feather pillow makers didn’t cut the feather shaft shorter. They would poke me through the pillow. One time, I opened the zipper at one end and took a good long look at those feathers. I’d have cut the shaft just a wee bit shorter.
Continuing through the living room led to the dining room. To the left of that entry was an old cupboard. There was an old table and chairs to the right. On past that, further in and to the right, was the door to the bathroom. Walking to the left from the dining room would lead to the kitchen.
A little nook off the far side of the kitchen held a little table and some shelving, somewhat like a pantry. A refrigerator occupied the corner of that room on the right.
There was a back room just off the kitchen where she had a deep freezer. That room always smelled like cat food to me. But I don’t remember ever seeing a cat.
Through the back door in that little room, there were old faded brown buildings out back that we weren’t allowed to go in. There was a little well-house out by the North-west corner of her house. It had a metal ladle hanging on a nail.
I could draw that little house. I knew every nook and cranny. I’m writing about her and her house because neither one of them are here anymore. And I want to keep the memory alive.
I was nine years old when she passed. November 3, 1999.
She was a treasure. Every memory of her is a treasure. I was blessed to have known my great-grandmother, Mable Ruth Tilman Dobbs.
to those keeping the memories alive,
– Caleb
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