The first time I saw the Allan’s home was January 1971. Steve and I were dating. I was impressed with the huge living room with needle-point chairs, a host of plants, and white carpet. Steve would laugh that the kids were not allowed to go in the biggest room of the whole house. The family room was in the half-basement. TVs were prominently utilized in the family room, kitchen, and parent’s bedroom. The parent’s bedroom was most impressive. A huge king-sized bed with large windows filled the room. While master-bathrooms are common now, at that time, the custom bathroom (with maroon sink and toilet) was an eye-catcher.
The entire house was the picture of cleanliness and organization. Junk did not accumulate anywhere. It was dusted every day and even the base molding was cleaned once a week.
While there was love and magic in each room of the house (to say nothing of the amazing yard that was filled with roses and blooming flowers the whole summer), the kitchen was fascinating. Shaped in an S, though the storage space was minimal, it included a double oven and range. While the adage, “A place for everything and everything in its place” was the motto of the entire house, it was never more true than in the kitchen. The pans (which hung in the corner cabinet) had to be carefully nested and placed in a specific location or they just wouldn’t fit. Every item in the kitchen had a precise location. The hallway laundry area doubled as a pantry (as there was absolutely no room for foodstuffs in the kitchen). The sink was always perfectly empty, dirty dishes having been thoroughly rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, ALWAYS.
I remember my first meal there. The living room table had been extended with multiple leaves and was covered with padded segments which exactly fit each underlying panel. The table was set formally, with two forks and a salad plate, even for Bob (who was only 12 at the time). The plates were warmed in the bottom oven and delivered to the table minutes before the prayer. From that tiny kitchen came incredible food. Homemade rolls with jelly, roast with chili sauce, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, potatoes with rich gravy. That divine production known as Sunday dinner has been repeated many times during my tenure as an Allan. While there was rarely a salad, there was always absolutely amazing desserts – angel pie, raspberry pie, layered angel food cake, chocolate cake (made from scratch).
Steve’s folks are ten years older than mine, but they always seemed much, much older – receding hairlines, gray hair, formal attire. How I wish I could turn back time and enjoy them in their relative youth. I didn’t know what old was.
At 95 and a half, Alda is still in her home. In physical appearance, the house layout is still the same. The last remodel took place 54 years ago (when the home was six years old). Yet, not everything is the same. The converted bedroom, turned TV room, has a lift chair to facilitate standing. The toilets have raised seats with attached grab bars. The shower has a chair to facilitate the showers Kathy lovingly provides each week. The walker and four-pronged cane betray the age of the only inhabitant – Glen having died eleven years ago.
Yet, the kitchen is exactly as I remember it forty years ago. The heavy stoneware is too difficult for her to lift, but she likes it. Her Christmas Corelleware, purchased to replace the unmanageable dishes, has been sandwiched in amongst the existing plates. The cups, hardly two alike, are a motley collection; including cheese spread glasses, misshapen insulated mugs, and glasses proclaiming a hole-in-one. One would think the bent measuring cups would warrant replacement (as measurements are certainly not accurate), but they still work and purchased replacements will not be used. The only meal she cooks each day is breakfast – and it is quite a production. How she finds the energy to prepare waffles, sausage, toast, and grapefruit every morning is as much of a miracle as the kitchen itself.
The other morning when I stopped by, her toast was precariously placed on a clam-shell like plastic bowl. I had never seen it before, so I asked what it was. She laughed and said she had placed her toast on a disposable plastic plate in the bottom oven to keep warm. It had melted, and formed to her fingers as she took it out. Rather than dirty another plate, she just used it.
Everything in the kitchen is still stored in exactly the same place as it was forty years ago. The bread drawer is virtually empty. The drawer below it has a single open bowl of sugar. The bowls she needs to make waffles are above the range, where she cannot reach them without standing on a stool. After falling multiple times in the last year, she knows to keep her feet on the ground. I asked if I could rearrange the bowls to utilize space within her reach, but she would not permit it. She started to say, “I just won’t be here that long,” but stopped herself mid-sentence. She explained, “People are in and out enough. They can get them down for me.”
She has that right. Of course, the dropping by is not out of convenience, but out of necessity. Kathy and Bob are saints, “dropping by” to bring in her newspaper, clean up from breakfast, take her to weekly hair appointments, give her showers, bring her dinner nightly, clean up from sickness, and help her to bed. If that isn’t enough, this year they have added to the “to do” list - hauling over their snow-blower to clear the driveway.
With Grandma’s abilities declining each month, friends passing away, and beloved activities abandoned, perhaps there is comfort in having a kitchen where nothing changes.
1 comment:
What a tribute, but so sad as well. Alda is amazing, as are your Cathy and Bob!
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