It only takes two generations...

I read somewhere once that all of us are fogotten after two generations. I guess that is case, if you think about it. My kids knew my grandparents for about seven years before they passed. They still have some faint memories of time spent with them, but they didn't know them. Their own children will someday see pictures and hear stories, but it will be 'ancient history' to them.

So, in essence, I'm the fire tender for my grandparent's memories. I hold them dearly in my heart, for that is where they now live. I don't want to go by that house at 1822 Colby; no one I know is there. The real 1822 Colby is in my memory and it is still bustling with the sounds and smells of family...

There are 14 loaves of the heaviest white bread you can imagine raising on the kitchen counter, while a pot of soup bubbles on the stove. The coffee pot is on--a bottomless plate of cookies next to it-- and the record player is working it's way through a stack of LP's that just make you want to tap your feet.

You can hear the sound of a saw blade screaming through a two by four from the shop out back. The backyard garden fills the tiny space and offers up beautiful gifts, including the vase of sweet peas on the table that fragrance the whole house.

The dice cup has just cooled down from the morning's match, and a score pad reveals a tight game. Everyone who stops by contributes to the hefty coin jar Grampa keeps on the shelf, and I think he makes his wine strong on purpose to hone his advantage.

Gramma's in the laundry room, her hair up in curlers and bound with a green scarf. She is humming to the music, a smile forever on her lips. In the bedroom her typewriter holds a letter she is writing to someone far from home. She'll put in some newspaper clippings of the local stories, and maybe a recipe to share.

People will stop in throughout the day and have a bowl of soup or a glass of homemade wine. They'll be met with smiles and a warm hospitality that will make the day better somehow. They might be a few dollars poorer, but the time spent at the game table will be priceless. Before they leave Grampa will put a loaf of fresh bread in a bag, and add a bottle of Blackberry wine for good measure. Gramma will send some of those cookies along with them, and they'll both stand on the porch waving until the car disappears from sight.

"Stop by now!" That's what they always said as you were leaving.

And I do. As often as I can now.