Childhood Memories at Grandmother's House: Past and Present

The Familiar World of Grandmother's House

When I was very young, my maternal grandmother hosted every family get-together. My parents and I would drive what seemed like an eternity on the highway to reach her small, slightly shabby corner house. My grandmother was very set in her ways and did not like to change things, so the house had remained relatively the same in its exterior appearance and interior décor for many years. The outside was a faded blue. The color palette of the interior was mostly oranges, browns, and greens — shades that had been fashionable when the house was first furnished but were no longer in style. The sofa I always sat on was slightly saggy in the middle. My grandmother had a much smaller television than we had at home, with fewer channels, and my relatives and I would flip through the stations, desperately trying to find something to watch.

Understanding how memory and place are intertwined helps explain why childhood spaces carry such lasting emotional weight. Every corner of my grandmother's house was a fixed point in my mental landscape — unchanged visit after visit, and all the more comforting for it.

Food, Candy, and the Rules That Did Not Apply

My grandmother was a good cook, and as soon as we walked into the house a host of smells would wash over us. Usually there was some kind of poultry — either chicken or turkey — if we had come during a holiday. She also made baked dishes I never encountered anywhere else, like tuna noodle casserole and macaroni and cheese made from scratch. Candy dishes were scattered all over the house, filled with types I never saw elsewhere: multicolored old-fashioned ribbon candy, spearmint leaves, and a licorice mix she called "bridge mix." My parents told me not to eat any candy before we left, but I always helped myself, and they never said a word. All of the conventional family rules did not apply at grandma's house. I could leave my vegetables unfinished and still have dessert.

Some years, when I was bored, I would play games like Scrabble and Life with my cousins. The board games were always older editions, and the closets that housed them smelled slightly musty. Other times, I would help my grandmother in the kitchen — usually rinsing off dishes or setting the table. Her pantry was like a graveyard of spices, boxed mixes, and dry goods; she never seemed to throw anything away. Yet most of what her kitchen yielded always tasted good. She made most of her own cakes, but she also had a fondness for certain processed treats that were never allowed at home, like white Pepperidge Farm rolls, Nilla Wafers, and Ritz crackers.

Games, the Kitchen, and the Backyard

After dinner, the children would go off and play in the yard. Her yard was slightly overgrown, which made it perfect for adventures. The shed had not been cleaned out since my grandfather had died, and it was full of old curiosities — broken lawn equipment and chipped patio furniture. There were also neighborhood cats that would sun themselves in the grass, which we liked to pet and chase. We climbed the low-lying trees as well. Unstructured outdoor play of this kind, researchers note, is particularly vivid in adult memory precisely because it was self-directed and imaginative.

After my grandmother died, I visited the house again with my parents to clean it out so it could be sold. By the time we arrived, most of the "junk" — her old magazines, houseplants, and dried goods — had already been thrown away. Some of the furniture had been sent to Goodwill, although the nicer and newer pieces remained so that the house could be shown to potential buyers. The entire house felt more bare. The living room and bedroom, which had once been crowded with knickknacks, magazines, and photographs, had been stripped. Everything was less dusty.