Grandma Ada (Life History Stories, #2)

Grandma Ada
(Life History Stories)

My maternal grandmother, Ada Thomas, was a great lady.  She was a wife, mother of ten children, grandmother to 60-something grandchildren and 70-something great-grandchildren, pianist, organist, swimmer, runner, tap dancer, music teacher, frequent bread baker (to feed those kids!), and life of the party!  She loved to have fun, and though she was married to a "health nut" she loved sweets, and always had cookies and other treats for us whenever we came to visit.  We sometimes referred to her as our "Cookie Grandma" when I was little, but we always called her "Grandma Ada."

I loved spending one-on-one time with Grandma Ada.  She was so much fun.  I have fond memories of spending the night at their house; grandma took me to the mall in Scottsdale near their home and we had lunch (and dessert!) at Duck and Decanter.  I don't remember how old I was (maybe 12?) but I will always remember that; just hanging out with my Grandma (who I thought was beautiful and "cool"), window shopping and talking.  I loved every minute of it.

I also remember playing the organ at their house (mostly just playing WITH the organ, rather than actually "playing it").  Grandma would sometimes ask me to play something for her on the piano, which was intimidating, since she played so well, but I did it anyway.  Once after I stumbled through a hymn or something, Grandma taught me an important lesson I will never forget, and for which I'm continually grateful.  She said, "You don't need to look at your hands when you play... just look at the music, and feel the notes with your fingers.  You know where they are.  Keep your eyes up.  You waste too much time looking back and forth between your hands and the notes on the page."  I was surprised!  I don't think anyone had ever taught me that before.  My piano teacher must have mentioned it sometime, though I don't remember if she did, but some reason when Grandma Ada said to do it, it made an impression.  I was certain I would not be able to do it, but Grandma firmly insisted that I try.  I really struggled, but I kept working at it.  I forced myself not to look down at my hands.

I think I learned more from that one "lesson" with Grandma Ada than in all the years I had taken formal piano lessons.  Over time I was able to get better at keeping my eyes on the music, and my piano playing improved vastly because of it.  To this day I avoid looking at my hands when I play.  I think it's one of the reasons I enjoy playing the piano, and I always think of Grandma Ada when I do. 

The Laundry Chute (Life History Stories - #1)

The Laundry Chute
(Life History Stories)

When I was about 5 years old we moved into a house that my dad built on Lyn Rae Square in Mesa, Arizona.  It was a 2-story brick colonial with white columns and a large yard.*  It was a lovely home, and I'm sure I would appreciate the decor and well-designed floor plan now as an adult, but my 5-year-old self remembers the really cool things.... like the laundry chute in the upstairs bathroom.

The laundry chute was meant as a convenience for my mother (and I suppose for us kids too), magically making the dirty clothes from upstairs appear almost instantly downstairs in the laundry room.  (I think my dad is probably the one who included this feature, because I suspect my mom would have just put the laundry room itself upstairs.)  Rather than seeing it as a convenience, my sisters and brother and I used it as a means of entertainment, such as sending toys and other items on a wild (but short) ride to the ground floor.

I'm sure my older siblings have more frequent (and more accurate) memories of the laundry chute adventures, but I specifically remember wiggling down it myself on a particular occasion.  It was meant to be exciting but was rather frightening, though I imagined I would land on a soft pile of (dirty!) clothes.... which wasn't there.  Either it was "laundry day" and my mom had already retrieved all our soiled duds, OR (more likely) they were lying on the floor of our bedrooms.   At any rate, it wasn't a pleasant experience and I never journeyed through the laundry chute again (I must have been of above-average intelligence to have learned that lesson so quickly), though I do recall urging some of my younger siblings to do so themselves. 


* My family always refers to this home as "The Two-Story House" for a couple of reasons; 1) it's the only house my parents ever built that had an upper-story, and 2) we lived for many years in another house on the same street which had a basement (so it was "technically" 2-story), but no upper-story, so that's how we differentiate between the two.  "The Two-Story House" also had a basement though, so I guess technically it would be a 3-story house?

Follow the Steeple

My book club is doing something different this month... writing! Actually, we are reading too... books about writing... and then writing stories from our own life.   Here is one from my childhood.


Follow the Steeple

"Just follow the steeple." said Aaron.  "It will lead us home."

I believed him.  He said it with complete confidence, and I had known him my entire life... all five long years at the time... so I had no reason to doubt him.  Besides, he was a boy, and since I had an older brother and was used to letting him tell me what to do, it seemed that Aaron was the obvious leader over me and my best friend, Liselle, who was also Aaron's cousin.  Liselle and I simply trusted Aaron in our 5-year-old way.

The three of us lived on the same street in Mesa, within a few houses of each other, and attended morning kindergarten at a nearby elementary school.  Our mothers were friends, so carpooling was natural.  On this particular day, someone was late picking us up after school (we didn't keep track, so I have no idea whose turn it was... we simply trusted them too).  We were tired of waiting what seemed like an eternity, though it was likely only a few minutes longer than our normal wait.

I don't remember who had the brilliant idea of walking home, but it seemed like a good plan to our grumbling tummies.  It wasn't far; certainly it was within walking distance.  And the weather was nice (always an important consideration in the Arizona desert), but it would require crossing a busy major street in mid-day traffic, though that didn't seem to concern any of us much.

What did concern us was that we didn't know the way home.  Since we were used to traveling to and from school in a car, and our young minds had not yet developed much sense of direction, we were rather stumped at first.  We seemed to know the general direction, but not how to navigate the streets around the buildings between the school and our homes.

At this point, Liselle and I gave up.  Waiting seemed preferable to getting lost.  But Aaron was undaunted.  "Just follow the steeple," he said.  That perked us up.  Liselle and I didn't even question this; we knew he was right.  The church, whose tall steeple towered above the houses and trees, stood at the end of our quiet suburban street, and we walked there to attend services every Sunday.  We knew exactly where it was!  We could see it from the school!  And because we trusted Aaron, we knew the steeple would lead us home.

And somehow it did.  I guess Aaron deserves some credit too, for he was able to keep two gasping 5-year-old girls pressing forward on what turned out to be a much longer walk than any of us anticipated.  Taking a route that I now know to be very much "the long way home," we arrived at the church, exhausted and hungry (it was now well past lunch time), and found our jilted chauffeur driving around frantically to find us.  Down came the car window and we heard an anxious voice exclaim, "You walked home?!  How did you know the way?"

We three triumphant hikers simply smiled and replied in unison, "We just followed the steeple."