Grandma's House

Snuggled in my spirit and once nestled in Redding, CA, my sincerest summer sweetheart, and fondest childhood memories wait tucked in the corners of my grandma's house.

My musings left behind fade with each passing summer making my longing more acute and tempting; still, a subtle pulse rings in my ear like a forgotten favorite tune: 845 Hallmark Drive.

Images whirl by like a carnival ride as I recall my grandparent's shamrock clover one-story rancher, the luck of the Irish - a home entertained of laughter, love, long lazy afternoons, IT'S-ITs, honeyed homemade cooking, BBQ burnt chicken, and mischief.

Like a tide carrying me home, I feel the anticipation and delight of my cousins and me sneaking around the moss-painted picket fence, hoping to surprise our grandmother with our arrival (as if my Auntie Julie's blue and white boxy 80s Chevy Suburban disguised itself in the driveway).

I behold the kindness in the corner of my grandmother's eyes and my grandfather's warm, welcomed bear hug as I turned the corner from the front door and landed suddenly in his arms.

Time expanded and decelerated those boundless days. Water had its own sound, and our voices broadcasted happiness, crowding the dense heat. Days rotated and weaved in ritual around the fiber of the four-sided pool. The sun poured itself into the valley of our souls like a rich blush wine, and the spray of the splash cooled the searing 100+ temperatures.

The backyard was a blue dream with an airy, yet grounding vibe topped with inflatable plastic pocket lounge floaties, transparent pale tubes, and multicolored beach balls. Excitement echoed from the edges of the shimmering cool, clear water as we bathed in buoyancy and ran barefoot in swimsuits in constant exchange from water to the icy air-conditioned dwelling.

Like a preferred pastime, the senses of those summer stories come alive in my imagination. I see my grandfather in his sun hat, shorts, and knee-high socks, holding his skimmer pole as he gathers floating leaves. The comfort of my grandmother sitting under the umbrella's shadow in her flowered sundress, dodging the dry heat.

Close enough to inhale, I smell the aroma of my grandma's fragrant baking bliss and savory generous feasts. I feel the cool mist of the outdoor refrigerator stockpiled with secret syrupy indulgences. I enjoy the vanilla-sticky sweetness of my Drumstick dripping and decorating my lips, chin, and fingertips.

I touch the tenderness of the warm sun on my sun-kissed cheeks as my legs dangle leisurely over the inner tube, toes skimming the surface as I watch in wonder and worry, the red dragonflies in their iridescent wings skipping and scanning the crust of the water.

I spot the rainbow of terry cloth towels hanging on the fence, the 80s wicker white décor, and pretend plants hanging from the beams in their macrame rope swings. I remember the bucket of soft swimmies nearly deflated and Red Radio Flyer Tricycle we outgrew but wore and rode anyways. The Donald Duck floaty I traveled with glee and the tinted rafts we would slyly dare and flip one another on.

I catch the repetitive tick, tick, tick as we sprint through the conventional sprinklers and the mosquito trap suspended on the wall with its flickering pale blue laser and the enthusiasm each time an insect meets its fate.

It is where I learned to play Rummy, keep score, and keep an eye on my grandma's hand. It is where I gained the skills to dive over a stream of frigid hose water held by my grandfather just a few feet above the surface. It is where my dad threw plastic balls toward our eager hands as we jumped from the diving board. It is where I rested on the pool deck concealed in artificial turf, toast my tan buns, and burned tiny holes in dry leaves.

When the sun would slip down, drawing a diamond of thin light circling the pool and the lazy blue of moonlight rose, I would grab my forgiving floating device, wrap my arms around the rubber ball, flip on my back, and gaze into vastness as tiny twinkle lights illuminated the inky sky.

Today you can still find me floating in my community pool or on top of an inviting body of water. I surrender to the silky liquid and let it work its magic on me again. My bones relax as water fills my ears, drowning the external, and the sound of my breath is all I hear.

I connect to the pureness of summer and of innocence and awe. I rest watching the same great sky observing the ebb and flow of my body and thoughts, and silently appreciating the shifting moods of the unbroken idle afternoons and eternal twilight long ago that wander with me today.

I hope you, too, have a grandma's house, a place that brings you back home and reminds you of the essence of summer, and a place in your life now that recenters you and sparks some wonder.

Dina is a Walnut Creek resident. In her newsletter, Through the Lens, she writes about yoga, mindfulness, love, loss, and the human experience.

Explore Dina’s coaching services and classes at https://www.dinavarellas.com.