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| Stringams. At Gramma's house. |
My Gramma Stringam lived in a house in Lethbridge.
She and Grampa had built it and moved there when their older
sons took over management of the ranch.
By the time I entered the world, they had lived in it a
number of years.
And when I had reached an age to remember, it was already ‘seasoned’
and had received additions to the original structure.
It was a beautiful, comfortable home, with junipers growing
on either side of the front door, stuffing one’s lungs with fragrance whenever
one entered or exited into the wide hallway that ran from the front to the magical
kitchen at the back.
To the left were the doorway to Gramma and Grampa’s room,
the entrance to the upper staircase and the entrance to the laundry room and
lower staircase. To the right were the double glass doors to the living room.
Grampa’s recliner perched directly behind these doors in the corner. A long couch
sat in front of the wide window beside his chair. Along the back wall was a
white ‘fireplace’, a mirror and some book shelves.
On the opposite side of the room were some comfortable chairs
and a ‘piecrust’ table with little figurines that little fingers itched to play
with.
Ahem . . .
Also on that wall was the wide opening to the sunny dining
room. Which contained a great sideboard that held dishes and linens. And,
for those same little fingers, a drawer full of candy.
Don’t ask me how I know this . . .
The dining room was sandwiched between the great, sun-filled
kitchen and the comfortable ‘sun room’ filled with books and chairs and . . .
sunshine.
I loved this house. It was sparkling clean, warm, bright and
welcoming. Endlessly filled with the fragrances of freshly baked bread and/or
cookies and/or homemade soups and/or roasting meats.
But my reasons for describing all of this to you is because
I wanted to talk about the floors.
Yes, it takes me a while.
The living room, in fact, most of the rooms, were floored in
hardwood strips, polished and gleaming. Each room was additionally covered by a
wide rug with reached very nearly to the edges. Only a brief, tantalizing glimpse
of shining floorboards was visible near the walls.
One walked on woven carpets mostly.
But even as your stockinged feet tread along those carpets,
you could hear the creak of the wooden floors beneath you.
I loved it.
It was the ‘sound’ of Gramma’s house that went along with
the fragrance.
In our home, Husby replaced the carpets with hardwood flooring
many years ago. They have now developed squeaks.
And whenever I hear one, I am again that little girl,
happily crossing the living room at Gramma’s house.
The piecrust table and its prohibited, fragile residents are
there, just within reach. The candy cupboard sits in the sunshine a few feet
away.
And Gramma and Aunt Emily are in the kitchen, where, shortly
something delicious will emerge.
All recalled with the single squeak of a hardwood floor.
