Grandmother Vinita’s house in Denton wasn’t
anything like storybook grandmothers’ houses. Sure, it was a Victorian house,
but in a severe Greek Revival style. No fancy gables or porches or columns. The
interior, despite soaring 12-foot ceilings, enormous windows, and wide plank wooden floors blackened
with age, was cluttered and uncomfortable. She only ever heated or cooled one
room, her “dining” room that was really her “everything” room. Every other room
in the house was either freezing cold or brutally hot, depending on the season.
The fact that all the windows were painted shut didn’t help. Except for a box
of Lincoln Logs, there were no toys, puzzles, or children’s books in the house.
Just heavy, ornate walnut furniture, uncomfortable narrow beds, and so much stuff.
There were a few entertainments to be found by a creative and restless child. The incredibly heavy cannonball on the hearth was a challenge to be hefted by my skinny arms. A trunk full of old curtains became queen’s robes for draping and swishing. The dried stalks of the daylilies in the yard were short-lived swords for dueling with my sister. A wooden swing hanging from a backyard tree challenged us to soar high enough to touch the eaves of the house with our toes. Kit could manage it; my short legs couldn't quite reach.
But the best entertainment was the jack loom that occupied one corner of the dining room. If Grandmother was working on a project, I could sit next to her on the bench and help by throwing the shuttle across to her and pulling the beater against the fabric to tighten the cloth. They rhythmic percussion of the weaving and the intoxicating smell and texture of the wool made me forget the heat and discomfort.
The loom was fed by an enormous collection of yarn that Grandmother kept in a backyard shed called the Yarn Barn. The Yarn Barn was about the size of a one-car garage, and it was lined with shelves overflowing with yarn of every type and color. And when I say overflowing, I mean it was a disastrous mess. Skeins of yarn, balls of yarn, wads of yarn, boxes of yarn, bags of yarn, on the shelves, spilling off the shelves, on the table in the middle of the shed. One hot summer day, my sister and I decided we would organize it. We were bored to madness or we never would have contemplated such folly.
It took us about three days. Sorting, untangling, and
balling yarn using the yarn swift clamped to the table. We organized yarn by
type and color. We got everything off the floor and onto shelves or into
containers. We discarded the useless little bits and ends of yarn. We dusted
and swept every corner of that shed. When we showed off the result to
Grandmother, she was truly surprised and pleased, but it didn’t take many
months before she stirred it all back up into a complete mess again.
Grandmother sold her house years ago and moved first to a retirement community, which she hated, then to a small house in Fort Worth near my mom. Most of the fabulous furniture and interesting collectibles were sold too. Even now, having spent my adult life in the low quality tract or manufactured homes that are all my "professional salary" can aspire to, I regret the loss of that house. I miss the wavy handmade glass of the windows, the detail of the woodwork, the red hand-printed wallpaper in the entry, the pegged oak floors. I drove by with my kids years later. It had been converted to an architect's office. The green front yard is a parking lot. The banks of daylilies are gone. The shutters on the front of the house are ripped away. The homes on either side are office buildings now too. I stopped and went in to say hello. They allowed me to wander around the house. The yarn barn is still there, used to store blueprints, still shabby and still smelling strongly of wool. I stood there, sniffing, and the past seemed so far away and so near.
