Idella

There are certain smells, sights,and tastes, which will always remind me of Grandma. The yellow of freshly molded butter; thin, floral china tapping on a white porcelain tabletop; the frail softness of my own thin skin, veined now with the tracery of hard work, Mother’s work, like her hands were. Rows of gladiolas bright, so bright in the warm August sun of Maine lined up like the Crayola crayons; she always had waiting for me. The sweet, strong, scent of onions sizzling in a black cast iron fry pan. Red-blue, blue-black, venison popping in her homemade butter. All memory of the deer, who gave its all for our meal, past. The acridly sweet smell of propane gas, from a kitchen stove, mixing with the wood smoke and soot from the living room heater. Even pennies make me smile, and remember Grandma. As I sat on the scrap wool hand-braided rug, at five, counting the coppers, she had saved for me! Books! The joy of a hard cover, pictures laced with Jesus and Moses. Tales of God and the little children; but God was not my world, Grandma was. The softness of her bosoms, as she held me. The black mesh netting, that held her silvered-black hair. How she held my small hand on wood walks. Lady slippers, acorns, pug noses… Dandelion yellow, fried dandelions, hand dropped fat-fried doughnuts, and the tang of Winesap apple, Apple vinegar. Grandmother never leaves me; I hold her near my heart To MY bosom, always, where she held me.