Fall at Grandpa’s house

In the fall, at Grandpa’s house. 

The trees are shedding their summer coats, the green and gold remnants strewn over damp grass. Pensioners curse, dreading the raking and bagging to come. But children kick the leaves about, their minds filled with the anticipation of the holidays on the horizon—no school, trick-or-treating, softly blinking red and green lights, cakes, pies, turkeys, and presents under the tree. Maple and cherry wood smoke wafts on a gentle October breeze, billowing softly from chimneys here and there. It’s not as cold as it will be, but tell that to the brittle-boned old folks sitting under homemade quilts drinking hot tea to whom warmth is a commodity more precious than gold.

I open the door.  More decorative than functional, the fireplace sits cold beneath a big-screen TV mounted above it, a silent sentinel of warmth and comfort. On the walls are photos of people who look different now. They’ve grown, died, split, divorced, and stand, sit, or laugh in these little captured moments gathering dust on the wall. My grandmother used to write names and dates on the backs of all her photos; sometimes I think that I should do that, too, but alas, years from now, others will look at the pictures on my wall and wonder about the people and the stories their photos were trying to tell.

The furnace kicked on last night for the first time this fall, burning off the summer dust the filter missed. My bones may not be brittle, and I don’t feel old. Still, the slight smell and the warmth immediately put the anxieties of the outside world to rest, enveloping me in the comforting nostalgia of crackling fires past, hot chocolate around wooden tables, heavy blankets, and stocking feet.

Mixed with the smell of the furnace are other scents, faint olfactory spirits of meals past. Bacon, biscuits, turkeys and hams, tuna fish sandwiches, and a million PB&Js, each scent a memory of good times and bad, family get-togethers and solitary meals, hope and peace and goodwill---a lot of heavy lifting for a gas stove and a fridge, but a warm kitchen is truly the heartbeat of a home.

 There's a thick blanket hanging haphazardly over the back of the couch. I remember how Grandpa covered himself with it as he watched TV, tucking it under his legs and kicking his chair back. Grandma used to watch with him back in the day. She had her chair. An ottoman sat between them, and a dog bed sat on that. Jake, the dog, watched TV with them. Between hiding their eyes, shaking their heads, and laughing at the characters' antics on their favorite shows, they would scratch Jake’s ears, give him treats, and tell him he was a good dog.

Grandpa and Grandma aren’t here anymore. MASH, Cheers, and Jeopardy, prime-time comfort food of days gone, have been replaced with fake reality shows and murder documentaries. 

 Walking further through the house, I see a water bottle standing watch on the nightstand by the bed in the master bedroom. Winter coats hang by the back door, waiting patiently for the cold nights to come. Pill bottles are lined up against the backsplash behind the sink in the bathroom. Some are too fat to fit in the old medicine cabinet, and some are just there so that daily doses won’t be forgotten. Under a covered patio, a grill has sat unused for the last few summers. 

 I sit on a wicker chair to watch the leaves float lazily to the ground. Jake runs about, looking for chipmunks and squirrels he will never catch.  I think about the circle of life and how what has been done will always be done again. And then I remember---Grandpa's dog was named Socks. Like Grandma and Grandpa, he has been gone for years. Jake is my dog; this is my house. That is my water that sits by the bed and my blanket that adorns my couch. The memories here are ones that I have made, memories painted with the same palette of colors my grandpa used, as did his grandpa before him.

Fall is in the air. I smell it one last time, then go into the house to bundle up in front of the TV. 

The circle of life remains unbroken.