my gramma's house

Key to photographs:
1. My gramma, circa 1929
2. The wood circle floor in the atrium.
3. The art deco bathroom in the basement.
4. Gramma's baby shoes, picture of my dad in the 70s, picture of her house from the outside.
5. The phone booth.
6. The bar.

My grandmother's house is better than your grandmother's house. That might be petty, or beside the point, but it's true. I wouldn't say it if it weren't. I recently returned from a business visit to Minnesota, homeland of my ancestors. I was born there, my dad was born there, my mom was actually born in Virginia but should have been born in Minnesota, all four of my grandparents and five of my great-grandparents were born there, too. Deep roots in the fertile flat soil, or something like that.

My gramma is rapidly aging and has many myriad health problems, so now she has round-the-clock nursing care in her house. One of her caretakers lives in an attached apartment, and her nurses use the guest bedroom as their home base for watching TV while she's asleep and stock piling their various medical supplies. My parents were in Minnesota, too, but they were staying at a hotel downtown. I knew it was going to be sort of weird to stay at the house with the ever-changing shift of nurses, but I love my gramma, and I love being in her house. And anyway, the basement was free and sofa-bed equipped.

I don't know how old the house is, but I'm guessing the 1930s or so. When my grandparents got divorced in the late 70s, my gramma moved a whopping 3/4 of a mile down the road, to a house very similar to the fab post-modern one she was leaving behind. The house is old enough that it boasts features like maid buzzers built into the walls, you know, if you don't feel like getting out of your bath or whatever.

Since I was little, the way I see my gramma has been inextricably tied to her house. If you meet my gramma, or if you see her house, it just sort of makes sense that this lady lives in this house, or that this house is home to this lady. The upholstery looks like clothes she'd wear, or it's cushions she's needlepointed, Andy Warhol flowers or the ski lifts at Aspen. The art is the kind that's in museums she likes. And the house is full of things (bric-a-brac, kitsch, bona-fide artifacts) and pictures from all of the places she's been. I suppose it's a shallow idea that a person can be defined by their material possessions. And of course, my gramma is much more than the sum of her stuff. But I think it's OK in this case, wonderful, even, that I associate my gramma so much with her home.

The house isn't all that big, but it feels huge-- partly because of an open, airy, floor plan, and partly because there's so much to look at. The house is low and long and rambling, Japanese style, through the woods, almost up to the shore of Long Lake. The central room is called the atrium, and the entire ceiling's a skylight. In the atrium, it feels like whatever kind of day it is outside: snow covered and soft, muggy and overcast, or blazing sunshine. The floor is a series of cut tree trunks, and when I was little I thought that there had once been a whole forest standing there, that the builders had simply leveled to make the floor. (See picture above). There are nooks and crannies off of the atrium, including two of my favorite closet-sized rooms: the phone booth, and the bar. The phone booth echos and has a chalkboard for writing insults about your sister on. The bar is mirrored, walls and ceiling, and stacked high with glass. There's also a huge ice maker, lots of top-shelf liquor, and tons of garnishes I've been gorging myself on for ages: cocktail onions, cornichons, olives, maraschino cherries.

The house feels grand, and yet accessible. The carpet's white, but surprisingly stain-resistant. There's art all over the place (Matisse, Calder, Miro) but nothing is precious or protected. I was never told not to touch anything, and I can't remember if I ever broke anything or not, but if I did, I don't think it was a big deal. We played, we ran around, we picked stuff up. One of our favorite games when we were little was to feed endless rounds of dimes into this vintage slot machine she has. We did break that, come to think of it, it's jammed now.

My gramma has various post its stuck everywhere with weird notes on them. Instructions to herself for how to turn on her computer, for example. On the red velvet pool table in the basement, there's one that implores the reader not to move the table because it's been leveled and also it will scratch the floor. The pool table stands on carpet. My gramma's eccentricity is part of all the things she has, and the way they're put together. She's pretty tidy, but believes that objects should be used and enjoyed. She's also generous-- often when I'd pick something up, or try it on (sweaters, books, do-dads) she'd say "Oh, you like that? Why don't you keep it." This past visit I uncovered (and took home) a 60s era Gucci bag in one of the basement's endless closets.

Visiting my gramma is different now. When I was there a year ago, she made me scrambled eggs and orange juice, and I couldn't help but obsess about this, and how she can't do that anymore, as we hung out on the porch, she in her wheelchair. I don't mean or want to be sentimental. Yet it means a lot to her, to me, to be in her house, an affirmation of a terribly fabulous life.

I know it's just a house.