hundstorfer

I was just 12 years old when my grandmother died after a long fight with Parkinson's disease. My mother's mother was a kind lady who loved her grandchildren with all her heart, desiring nothing more than to have us visit so she could love on us for a few hours. My grandfather, a very private person, kept his bride's possessions hidden away after she died. But when he no longer could care for himself and we had to move him into an apartment, the treasures in his attic brought back memories of grandmother I had almost forgotten.

Nearly 20 years had passed since my grandmother's death, when we were in the attic sorting through things to be saved and discarded. We came across some boxes in the corner that were simply labelled "Emma", my grandmother's name. Opening those boxes and looking through their contents revealed to me both the woman I remember from my childhood, and the woman my mother remembered from hers.

Among the many findings were trinkets, photos, and a book of British recipes. The recipes were especially important to me because I knew my grandmother loved to cook. When she was first married she could hardly boil water. But she learned to cook for her new husband and future children, and by the time grandchildren came along, she had perfected her art. She took a specific interest in British recipes because that was her lineage.

As I read through the recipes, memories of Sunday afternoon at grandmother's house flooded my mind. I could almost smell the roast lamb and vegetables that permeated the first floor of their suburban home. I remembered sitting on her front porch playing cards with grandfather while my mouth watered from the aroma wafting out from the kitchen. I remember sitting down to eat with the entire family, 13 of us in total, and feasting on the banquet grandmother had prepared. But more importantly, I remember being together as a family. We laughed and joked, told stories, played games; we simply enjoyed one another's company. Those were happy times indeed.

I eventually put the recipes down and began thumbing through the photographs. I came across one picture of grandmother filling her candy dish. The dish was kept on a table and was always filled with mints when we came to visit, yet in true child-like fashion, it was always empty when we went home. That dish holds another special place in my heart because it reminds me of all the little things my grandmother used to do to make our visits special. She always went out of her way for us, even as she began her Parkinson's battle.