The Red and Green House

Tonight with some friends we were talking about how different the town we live in looks from the 70s, 80s, 90s.  Streets are gone, buildings replaced, even restaurant's food tastes different.

And it got me thinking....

About being a little girl and my Grandma's house.

I was very blessed to have almost all of my grandparents in my life until adulthood.  My paternal grandfather, Papi, died when I was almost 5 years old. I vaguely remember him, but most of my memories come from pictures and stories.

But through adulthood I had my maternal grandmother (who was a gem) and my maternal grandfather and step grandfather.  What a gift to have them in my life.  My children's lives.  I don't take that lightly.

And then there's my paternal Grandma, Amelia.

My grandma has not had an easy life.  It's been filled with sorrow and traumatic events. There's been devastation that others would not have survived. 

She became a widow at a young age but in her mind, stayed married to my Grandpa.  Because that's just what you did.  There are so many things that I could share about her.  So many stories waiting to be told.

But I want to talk about her house.  And my experiences there as a child.

This house. Was the epitome of the family home.

Many of my aunts and uncles lived in it at one time or another. Many of my cousins the same.  Most of us visited on a regular basis. And we all considered it ours.

The big dining room table , parlor revamped as a bedroom, and creaky, scary staircase probably impacted me most.

The dining room table transitioned from meeting place to prime arguing spot to gin rummy to the place for intense discussions (also known as arguments) I remember being little and seeing all of the grown ups sitting there talking, sharing, arguing, laughing.   There was always lots of commotion and never enough chairs.  I marveled at how different they all were and yet how similar their stories were simply by growing up in the same home.  They might disagree on a lot of different issues....but there was love.  And it was the coveted place. It seemed as if I'd never get my own seat. For the longest time I just had to be happy to watch from afar.

That afar was just a room over.  A parlor turned into my grandma's bedroom.  No door and open entry. It was the place where the cousins played, danced, sang, argued and wrestled.  I remember jumping on the bed and my cousin Junior fell off and hit his head on the dresser.  I remember jam sessions with my cousins Kris and Shawn back in their hip hop days. I remember my cousins Rachel and Tessie and even Jessie dancing and showing their moves.  I remember reading story after story because I was the oldest grandchild and was almost always in babysitting mode. And I remember it being a stage....my stage where I would pull out my violin and play a little song...where I would sing....where I would act out the Micheal Jackson/Alfonso Rivera Pepsi commercial...and where my family would humor me.

When we'd tire of each other there was a foyer where we were allowed to play.  Kind of. Because in that foyer, my Grandma had a beautiful memorial for my Papi. Candles, flowers, the Virgin Mary, a rosary. I remember being so intrigued by this. I didn't know the story of my Papi's passing at that time...but I remember I knew it must be sad and painful to have a shrine dedicated to him.  We'd always have to be careful not to get too rowdy, so this would often lead to a few kids heading upstairs to the bedrooms.  The staircase?  Was crickety and rickety and every time I took a step I envisioned myself falling through.  Now it was NOT as spooky as the basement steps where the cucuy lived.  But still a little spooky just the same. The banister was weak and wobbly.  The steps felt like you'd fall through. The paint was chipping.  But something about that staircase just drew me in. I would often sit on one of the bottom two steps. (Mostly to get away from watching all of those cousins!!)

That house represented the best of my Grandma.

Dedication.
Commitment.
Steadfastness.

This is one of the last pictures we got of the house before they tore it down.  It's old and there are a LOT of us missing.  But it is still a representation of Amelia's legacy.

A legacy that includes
10 kids who are as different as night and day and yet the same.
26 grandkids who have little and much in common.
38 great grandkids and one on the way who we must pass on the stories so they don't lost the legacy.
7 great great grandkids (this may be off by one or two)
Respect for elders and yourself and the past.
Love for each person  deeply even when they mess up.
Acceptance for differences even if we might talk about ya a bit.
Laughter that will make you cry. That withstands pain.
Tradition. 

That house was more than a rickety structure painted red and green.  More than pain and loss and broken dreams. More than triumph and tenacity and strength.
It was home.
For all of us.
And even though it isn't there anymore....it will never not be.

That's what I got today.