Grandma's House

I awoke this morning missing Grandma Zintz. She was thin and had long, white hair that she kept up all the time, pinned in place with bobby pins. She wore slacks and blouses, as long as I knew her. She had a kind smile, and she was always ready with a hug. Dementia stole her away, but Christ has healed her, and I will go to Him and see her again one day.

We moved to New Mexico from Arizona when I was very young. When my grandfather was ill, he knew that family would be there to help care for her after he was gone. My siblings and I took turns spending the night at her house on the weekends.

For a snack, she would often make me a smoothie. It was nothing but milk and a banana, blended together in her ancient Oster. She poured the frothy mix into the narrow, but sturdy little glasses she used for us kids. Together we sipped them at her kitchen table. And her bird would sing along.

A series of birds lived with her over the years, inhabiting the wire cage in her kitchen. They trilled for her. She drove me to the pet store where we bought seed and treats for them. She taught me to change the newspaper lining at the bottom of the cage, and to refill their seed and water.

Year after year, tray upon tray of apricots that had dropped from the trees behind her house would invade every flat surface in her home, waiting to be transformed with sugar and heat into magical preserves. She created jars of sweet orange treasure.

I ate like a little king with her. She had a freezer loaded with frozen burritos, fish sticks, popsicles, and Eskimo Pies. And you could always find a box of oatmeal creme pies tucked in the cupboard.

Sometimes, we would even go out to eat. We would get into her giant Buick sedan, and down the road we would trundle to Lucky Boy for a burger, or to Mannie's restaurant on the corner of Central and Girard for a fancy meal.

 

After dinner, we would often play cards. She taught me a handful of simple games that she always managed to find ways to lose. Kings in the Corner, Skip-Bo, Rummy, and more.

Bath time was a wonderful experience with her. She fetched a butter knife from the kitchen, so I could carefully shave my soap beard in he reflection from the tub faucet. She kept a pitcher nearby that she used to rinse the shampoo from my hair. She was so careful to keep it from getting soap in my eyes.

My grandmother saved everything. Her laundry room was a museum of curated jars: rubber bands from the daily newspaper, tabs and twists from every loaf of bread, milk bottle caps, brown paper bags, plastic grocery bags, and more.

Her shelves and hallways were stacked with magazines. And she had shoeboxes in every room overflowing with old letters. I remember a closet filled with empty tissue boxes. And there was always at least a year's supply of Sunday comics stacked next to the guestroom bed when we were lucky enough to spend a night at her house.

She was so much more than the things in her home. She was the kindest, most gentle person I've ever known. She had a keen mind. She was frugal. She was a safe refuge. And I woke up missing her this morning.

Most of these words were written by my brother, Karl. Thanks for the tears and the memories. Grandma Zintz was a gift in all of our lives.