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| As it appears now. |
Last Friday was my
grandmother's birthday, my mom's, mom. If she had been able to survive her
illness back in 1979 she would have turned 127 years old. Of course she'd have
had to survive a number of other hurdles between then and now to have reached
that age, not the least being that most human beings don't live that long. My first remembrances of Grandma was her
house on Ada Street in Chicago. It always had a peculiar odor, a fruitiness
combined with the smell of my aunt's canaries, and the aroma of their ancient
bathroom. At least that was the smell until Grandma started cooking or baking,
and then that would overcome any funkiness that had prevailed. My mom used to
send me to stay with Grandma for a week in the summer. Visiting Grandma was a
real treat in some ways, and in other ways it sucked. First of all there was
the Chicago Union Stock Yards just a half a mile away. On warm summer nights,
with the windows open and a light breeze out of the northeast, the overpowering
stench of the stock yards would waft by. I always likened it to dirty feet and
stinky socks multiplied by a hundred, and stuffed directly up your nose. It was
awful, and it would usually give me a headache. But that was all forgotten when
Grandma would break out one of my favorite treats, homemade popsicles. Kool-Aid
frozen in a ice cube tray with toothpicks for handles. I still remember sitting
on her front porch, slurping down two or three of those things while Grandpa
smoked one of his White Owl cigars. Which is another thing, I hated those
cigars but I love it now when I get a quick smell of one on a summer evening.
It brings back memories of Grandma and Grandpa, and the house on Ada Street.
that was such a dark house - but so full of "stuff" Looks so bad now, when I remember the neighborhood being very active and houses crammed together. and Grandma's baking!
ReplyDeleteThose steps! They were 4x that tall as I remember as a child! I remember the smells associated with the house and neighborhood, too. I couldn't believe how tiny that house was when I went back to see it as an adult!
ReplyDeleteAwwwww. I loved going to my grandparents' house also. They petitioned and won to stop a chicken plant from opening up down the hill and I knew we were more than halfway there when I smelled the paper mill.
ReplyDeleteThat house is not out in the country. It appears to be from the photo, but it is in the inner city. All the houses around it have burned down, or been torn down. It is so sad. All the white people moved out and the area re-segregated. Just two blocks north of there, past the viaduct, it turns mostly Mexican and white. In fact two of my friends live on 49th not far from my grandparent's old house. Two flaming gay men in the middle of a blue collar, gang infested neighborhood. Theirs is the house with all the lovely flowers around it.
ReplyDelete