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Authors: Phyllis Clark Nichols
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was like the one Grandpa grew up in out in the mountains. He never forgot home, and he never forgot being poor.
When my grandparents moved to the country, Aunt Susannah Hope was the first in line to inherit their old house in town. Since my aunt and uncle didn’t have any children, they spent all their money and time fixing it up. They had piles of books to show them what an old house ought to look like. When they finished one room, they just went on to the next.
Meanwhile Mama and Daddy bought another house down the street and around the corner, next to the creek. Mama liked it because it was two-story, and she thought every kid should have a house with stairs. Daddy liked it because he could stand on the back porch and almost cast his fly rod into the stream. One time I heard Mama tell him, “I don’t want to live in a dollhouse or a museum like Susannah Hope. I want our house to be alive.” I agreed.
After Grandpa died, Mama and Aunt Susannah Hope tried to talk Granny into moving back to town. Nothing doing. Granny Grace loved the farm, with its pond and trails and chickens, and so did I. “Grady keeps me company, and I don’t think the town would enjoy Red Top crowing at four in the morning,” Granny declared. And that was that.
Granny drove through town real slow on the way home from choir practice. “Just look at all those Christmas lights. They look even prettier in the snow.” We passed a lit-up manger scene in front of the Methodist church, and Granny said, “Can you believe it? Next weekend, there’ll be real live people and animals in that manger scene.”
Chesler asked, “Will they have a real live camel too?”
“I seriously doubt we have any camels in these parts. They prefer sand, not snow.”
Santa and his reindeer were blinking across the street in front of the bank. The way they blinked made Santa’s sleigh look like it was flying, but Chesler’s favorite was the giant snowman in front of the tire store. Every time Chesler saw it, he sang “Frosty, the Snowman.”
When we drove by the motorcycle place, Granny said, “Kate, your daddy’s been talking to me, and we were thinking about inviting the little Fields girl over to spend some time with you during the holidays. Somebody ought to be nice to that little girl, especially at Christmas.”
I guessed that was Granny’s way of saying we were going to be the somebody. Last summer Granny and I went down by her pond to pick blueberries for a pie. She said her neighbor was sick and a pie would make her feel better. Every week Granny took baskets of food to the poor families who lived in the hollers over by the river.
As we picked blueberries, I asked, “Granny, why are you kind to everybody?”
“Why, child, I’m building my mansion in heaven, and with every act of kindness, I’m adding another brick.”
Granny’s mansion is gonna be big and tall.
The bucket was nearly full of blueberries, and Granny was sweating and breathing hard. “Let’s rest a minute before we walk back to the farmhouse.” So she just sat right down on a log and motioned for me to sit next to her.
Then Granny started talking, and I never forgot what she said. “Katherine Joy, what’s wrong with this world is that folks live like this old earth is home. But it’s not. Living on this planet is like going camping. You pitch your tent, and you go berry picking or fishing or walking around in the woods or playing a game with your family. You don’t spend all your time trying to make the tent more beautiful or more comfortable, because it’s not home. Just a waste of your time, and you’d miss out on lots of things that would make you and somebody else feel real good. Remember, you’re just gonna spend a few nights in that old tent, then you’ll be going home.”
Then she wiggled a bit on that old log and looked straight at me. “Katherine Joy,” she said, “You live at 804 Creek Meadow, but that’s not your permanent address. That’s just your
When my grandparents moved to the country, Aunt Susannah Hope was the first in line to inherit their old house in town. Since my aunt and uncle didn’t have any children, they spent all their money and time fixing it up. They had piles of books to show them what an old house ought to look like. When they finished one room, they just went on to the next.
Meanwhile Mama and Daddy bought another house down the street and around the corner, next to the creek. Mama liked it because it was two-story, and she thought every kid should have a house with stairs. Daddy liked it because he could stand on the back porch and almost cast his fly rod into the stream. One time I heard Mama tell him, “I don’t want to live in a dollhouse or a museum like Susannah Hope. I want our house to be alive.” I agreed.
After Grandpa died, Mama and Aunt Susannah Hope tried to talk Granny into moving back to town. Nothing doing. Granny Grace loved the farm, with its pond and trails and chickens, and so did I. “Grady keeps me company, and I don’t think the town would enjoy Red Top crowing at four in the morning,” Granny declared. And that was that.
Granny drove through town real slow on the way home from choir practice. “Just look at all those Christmas lights. They look even prettier in the snow.” We passed a lit-up manger scene in front of the Methodist church, and Granny said, “Can you believe it? Next weekend, there’ll be real live people and animals in that manger scene.”
Chesler asked, “Will they have a real live camel too?”
“I seriously doubt we have any camels in these parts. They prefer sand, not snow.”
Santa and his reindeer were blinking across the street in front of the bank. The way they blinked made Santa’s sleigh look like it was flying, but Chesler’s favorite was the giant snowman in front of the tire store. Every time Chesler saw it, he sang “Frosty, the Snowman.”
When we drove by the motorcycle place, Granny said, “Kate, your daddy’s been talking to me, and we were thinking about inviting the little Fields girl over to spend some time with you during the holidays. Somebody ought to be nice to that little girl, especially at Christmas.”
I guessed that was Granny’s way of saying we were going to be the somebody. Last summer Granny and I went down by her pond to pick blueberries for a pie. She said her neighbor was sick and a pie would make her feel better. Every week Granny took baskets of food to the poor families who lived in the hollers over by the river.
As we picked blueberries, I asked, “Granny, why are you kind to everybody?”
“Why, child, I’m building my mansion in heaven, and with every act of kindness, I’m adding another brick.”
Granny’s mansion is gonna be big and tall.
The bucket was nearly full of blueberries, and Granny was sweating and breathing hard. “Let’s rest a minute before we walk back to the farmhouse.” So she just sat right down on a log and motioned for me to sit next to her.
Then Granny started talking, and I never forgot what she said. “Katherine Joy, what’s wrong with this world is that folks live like this old earth is home. But it’s not. Living on this planet is like going camping. You pitch your tent, and you go berry picking or fishing or walking around in the woods or playing a game with your family. You don’t spend all your time trying to make the tent more beautiful or more comfortable, because it’s not home. Just a waste of your time, and you’d miss out on lots of things that would make you and somebody else feel real good. Remember, you’re just gonna spend a few nights in that old tent, then you’ll be going home.”
Then she wiggled a bit on that old log and looked straight at me. “Katherine Joy,” she said, “You live at 804 Creek Meadow, but that’s not your permanent address. That’s just your
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