Summer '72

There was an oak tree in the front yard, and my baseball in the gutter, there was a cookie jar full of cookies, made with Crisco, never butter. There was a swing set in the back, and rose bushes planted by the fence, there was a large painting in the front hall, of a man whose look was so intense. In the garage I signed by name, I was twelve that summer of '72, it was my small act of rebellion, but that fall grandma had to move. Mother said "Grandma forgets things, like the date or her name, so moving her somewhere else will be good, even though its not the same." Now that I am all grown up, with kids and a loving spouse, there are still day where I find myself missing, my grandmother's old house.