By Melissa Face
Being grandparents sufficiently removes us from the responsibilities so that we can be friends.
~Allan Frome
My parents fretted and worried before boarding their flight to Orlando. It was the first time they had left their four-year-old daughter for an extended stay. They reassured themselves with the thought that I would not be with a stranger. I would be staying with my grandmother -- and boy did I love my Mammie.
Being grandparents sufficiently removes us from the responsibilities so that we can be friends.
~Allan Frome
My parents fretted and worried before boarding their flight to Orlando. It was the first time they had left their four-year-old daughter for an extended stay. They reassured themselves with the thought that I would not be with a stranger. I would be staying with my grandmother -- and boy did I love my Mammie.
Who wouldn't? Imagine spending several days in a house with someone who lets you do anything you want. Malted Milk Balls for breakfast? No problem. Cheetos for lunch? Why not? Watching movies until midnight? Sure thing.
My stay at Mammie's was better than any fairy tale I had read about. Mammie brushed and styled my hair and gave me long backrubs. She brought out an entire drawer of costume jewelry and photographed me wearing several strands of beads. Mammie and I painted with water, colored pictures with jumbo crayons, picked flowers, and sang nursery rhymes. I did what I wanted, ate what I wanted, and the majority of my requests were met with, "Sure, darling."
I was rocking in Mammie's oversized, orange chair, my hand in a box of animal crackers, when my luxury vacation came to an abrupt end. Mom and Dad were back.
My parents stood at the door, arms outstretched and ready to greet their first-born child. They expected hugs and kisses. They expected me to be anxious for their return and ready to go home with them.
Instead, they spent a few minutes gathering my belongings while I sat in Mammie's chair and cried. "I don't want to go home!" I sobbed. "I want to stay at Mammie's!"
I cried the entire thirty-minute drive home and then a little more once we went inside. I was not ready for rules, structure, and set bedtimes. I was not ready to leave Mammie's.
Mom and Dad said that it took almost a month to get me back on track after my vacation at my grandmother's house. I had a hard time going to bed, waking up, and eating vegetables. I longed for the good times I had at Mammie's.
Ever since, I have been well aware of the strong gravitational pull that exists between Mammie's house and me. I returned quite often as a youngster for overnight visits. In my teenage years, Mammie and I stayed up late playing Yahtzee, watching movies and completing Mad Libs. We laughed, ate ice cream sundaes, and laughed some more.
As a college student, I came home for visits, quickly checked in with my parents, and then drove to Mammie's. We drank several cups of coffee, watched Letterman, and talked about my college courses until the early morning hours. We thoroughly enjoyed each other's company and I always looked forward to my next visit.
Earlier this year, Mammie became ill with complications from an allergic reaction. She was hospitalized and then placed in a nursing home for physical therapy. It was almost two months before she was able to return home and get back to her old routine.
Mammie invited my husband and me over for dinner recently. It was the first time she had cooked for us since she had gotten sick. Mammie made potato soup, meatloaf, green beans, and biscuits. Everything was delicious and in a lot of ways, the visit felt like the old days. Being in Mammie's presence is so intoxicating that I tend to forget all about my responsibilities and work obligations.
When it was time to go home, I really wasn't ready to leave. It was approaching ten o'clock and I knew I needed to get ready for bed. And though I was reluctant, I didn't pout and cry in Mammie's chair or refuse to get in the car with my husband. But I know why the younger me resorted to such tantrums.
I am thirty years old and still drawn to Mammie's house. She makes me dinner. She makes me laugh. She makes me happy. And when I am at her house, her love makes me wish I could stay... and stay.
My stay at Mammie's was better than any fairy tale I had read about. Mammie brushed and styled my hair and gave me long backrubs. She brought out an entire drawer of costume jewelry and photographed me wearing several strands of beads. Mammie and I painted with water, colored pictures with jumbo crayons, picked flowers, and sang nursery rhymes. I did what I wanted, ate what I wanted, and the majority of my requests were met with, "Sure, darling."
I was rocking in Mammie's oversized, orange chair, my hand in a box of animal crackers, when my luxury vacation came to an abrupt end. Mom and Dad were back.
My parents stood at the door, arms outstretched and ready to greet their first-born child. They expected hugs and kisses. They expected me to be anxious for their return and ready to go home with them.
Instead, they spent a few minutes gathering my belongings while I sat in Mammie's chair and cried. "I don't want to go home!" I sobbed. "I want to stay at Mammie's!"
I cried the entire thirty-minute drive home and then a little more once we went inside. I was not ready for rules, structure, and set bedtimes. I was not ready to leave Mammie's.
Mom and Dad said that it took almost a month to get me back on track after my vacation at my grandmother's house. I had a hard time going to bed, waking up, and eating vegetables. I longed for the good times I had at Mammie's.
Ever since, I have been well aware of the strong gravitational pull that exists between Mammie's house and me. I returned quite often as a youngster for overnight visits. In my teenage years, Mammie and I stayed up late playing Yahtzee, watching movies and completing Mad Libs. We laughed, ate ice cream sundaes, and laughed some more.
As a college student, I came home for visits, quickly checked in with my parents, and then drove to Mammie's. We drank several cups of coffee, watched Letterman, and talked about my college courses until the early morning hours. We thoroughly enjoyed each other's company and I always looked forward to my next visit.
Earlier this year, Mammie became ill with complications from an allergic reaction. She was hospitalized and then placed in a nursing home for physical therapy. It was almost two months before she was able to return home and get back to her old routine.
Mammie invited my husband and me over for dinner recently. It was the first time she had cooked for us since she had gotten sick. Mammie made potato soup, meatloaf, green beans, and biscuits. Everything was delicious and in a lot of ways, the visit felt like the old days. Being in Mammie's presence is so intoxicating that I tend to forget all about my responsibilities and work obligations.
When it was time to go home, I really wasn't ready to leave. It was approaching ten o'clock and I knew I needed to get ready for bed. And though I was reluctant, I didn't pout and cry in Mammie's chair or refuse to get in the car with my husband. But I know why the younger me resorted to such tantrums.
I am thirty years old and still drawn to Mammie's house. She makes me dinner. She makes me laugh. She makes me happy. And when I am at her house, her love makes me wish I could stay... and stay.
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