In The Beginning There was Gramma

 

Sunday Evening 

November 21, 2

Gramma reclines in her reading chair, motionless, head back, chin out, staring intently into the depths of Deep Space. It is absolutely frigid outside, the arctic blast cleansing the sky of the moisture so necessary for life yet so ruinous for observing the stars. I can see her clearly down the hall from my reading desk in the upstairs study. She seems timeless, silver hair in the traditional "up" style of her youth, blouse and sweater and yoga pants, coordinated and functional, her feet unseen, buried deep in her rabbit fur slippers. She laughs about her slipper's warmth, "There two times when cold feet can change a life; When witnessing a heated debate, to which you know the solution, yet say nothing, and the other is when in the course of reading about an unsolved enigma, rising out of your subconscious a possibility forms. No! It's not a possibility! This is THE answer! Then with a light laugh she says, "Just when your reach a point where you would be able to translate the "know" into words, you notice your feet are cold and in that split second your focus shifts and the answer sinks back into the subconscious, never to be put into words in your lifetime".

Gramma had moved in with us, what, almost 3 years ago? A letter written in the most beautiful cursive style arrived mid winter and by midsummer she was a fixture at our table. The letter stated that while she was of good health, sound mind and adequate finances, it was time to relinquish her independence, selling the small acreage her and Grandpa had turned into a defacto hermitage, complete with views of sunrise and sunset and comfortable chairs to watch them from. She stated our upstairs bedroom, the one at the end of the hall, with the attached full bath and large walk-in closet could, with some modifications, work quite well as her residence within our residence. While there were maybe seven to nine modifications listed, the two that stuck out was the conversion of the large walk-in closet into "her library" and the second one was to turn the unremarkable bay window area into an enlarged bump-out with large expanses of glass. This was to become her inner sanctum, where the world was allowed in, in only limited dosage, and where books from the walk-in closet seem to migrate to. Over time I became aware this was also her observatory of the heavens and the arena where she contested the powers and principalities I once scoffed at, but no longer.

After a number of interviews, the remodel of the closet and bay window area was given to a small, cabinet shop, owned and operated by an Italian family with roots deep in the Alpine valleys of northern Italy. At the first meeting with the owners, as Gramma went into the details of what she wanted and how she envisioned it to look, the patriarch leaned forward and with a pencil sketched on a legal pad his interpretation of Gramma's visions. The chemistry was obvious as Gramma slipped effortlessly into Italian, a language I had seen on letters she received, but until now had not heard her speak since I was a teenager. The conversation continued with Gramma occasionally going to her makeshift library and returning with large art, travel, and photography books where her and the old man poured over details in pictures of all things European. His daughter, her husband and their son sat patiently taking notes or making short phone calls to verify availability of certain materials or craftsmen. Late in the afternoon the younger folk loaded two boxes containing a number of her books into the back of his aged pick-up, and after the appropriate good-byes were said, climbed into a second vehicle and pulled away. Sensing she wished to speak privately with the old craftsman, I excused myself and returned to the house. As I poured a cup of coffee I watched as they shook hands and then she stood and watched as he drove down the sycamore lined driveway and out of sight.

"Will he take the job?"

"Yes"

"Did you google him"

"I don't need to"

"When will they start?"

"Soon"

"Cost?

"Dunno."

Such was the beginning of the near magical transformation of Gramma's private quarters into something that was an extension of herself and yet seemed to be sentient in it's own right.