Gram

Kentucky Lake is what comes to mind when I think of summer. My grandmother's house rests directly on the lake and most weekends from Memorial Day to Labor Day were spent playing in the sun with her and Gram. Gram was my great-grandmother who lived in a trailer a little over a mile down the raod. We spent the days on the water, eating popsicle after popsicle, and burning rubber in the go-kart.

Once the sun began to sink below the water, we would get cleaned up and head down the gravel road to Gram's. I loved everything about her trailer. Lace doilies covered almost every surface and extras spilled out of the cabinets. You couldn't find a speck of dust if you wanted to, but it still felt like home. Gram's place always smelled delicious. My favorite dish she made was strudels. She would talk with my sisters and I as we helped her toss flour on the counter (and the floor) and roll out the dough. Those moments are what meant summer to me.

When I was about five years old, Gram sewed me a small pillow covered in pink and white gingham fabric. What she intended me to use the pillow for I can no longer recall, but it became my "cry pillow." That small, round pillow got me through scraped knees, hurt feelings, and a broken heart or two. I rarely used the pillow once I was in high school, but it still held a prominent place atop my bed.

As friends and boys became more important than family, the lake seemed further and further away. Trips became rarer and nights spent at Gram's were seldom. That is when Gram got sick and was moved to a nursing home. Now this once strong and stubborn woman was frail and didn't know my name. Each time we visited her and repeated past conversations, I watched my childhood disappear alongside her already small frame. How could the woman who survived being stabbed five times not sit up in bed without someone else's help? Life was no longer carefree and simple as summer had always been. When Gram died, splotches of black stained that pink gingham pillow as my tears fell. Now whenever we would pass her road it felt as if something was missing. That essence of childhood was lost forever, somewhere along that gravel road.

That long, gravel road between the lake and Gram's is where I grew up. I learned to drive on that road. Deep conversations were had on that gravel. Laughter was carried away on a sweet summer breeze as it echoed off those rocks. Many nights were spent on its hard surface listening to night settle in and staring beyond the stars. Strolling along those stones, I could think more clearly than when anywhere else. That road is where go-kart races were won or lost, where memories were made, where friendships blossomed, and where death became real for the first time.

Years have passed and I can still remember vividly the pain of standing in her church, holding my sister Hannah, as they carried Gram's casket away. Not all of my memories are sad ones. We started the tradition of eating strudels every Christmas (we still can't make them like she did) and lace doilies fill our dining room. My bed still proudly displays my "cry pillow." Now when I drive past her road I think fondly of summers long ago and life lessons she taught. Gram's trailer is long gone, but that stretch of raod will always be my second home.