How I Knew I Wanted To Write...

Growing up, my favorite pieces to read would remind me of something tangible and real. I always had a creative mind and would often recall tangible memories of my own while creating art. But that’s what I thought it was for at the time- artwork. However, the longer I’ve lived I’ve begun to realize that I want my stories to be held by readers like a warm cup of tea. Pressed up against their mouth, while steam trickles up their face. So I began writing to create a feeling of warmth and home for particular days that needed those memories.

I’d like to share a memory with you from my childhood. One that reminds me of what home feels like and I’m hoping will pull out some similar memories and feelings in you. Because isn’t that what writing should do? Cause time travel to be real and allow you to momentarily escape your life to join another person’s? Let’s take a journey…

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One of my favorite memories from childhood was going to visit my grandparents in New Hampshire. From my house in Connecticut, it took what seemed about a million years. But in real time it was probably less than three hours. Each time we went it was always the same. I would sit in the back seat of whatever car my family owned. Squished between my two sisters. And the “conversation” always sounded the same.

“You’re taking up too much space!”

“Stop touching me!”

“Mom! Tell her to quit it!”

Usually, I was the one nudging with my elbow and taking extra space. And I was the one holding my finger half an inch away from my sister’s face. And I was the one doing some annoying thing that caused either or both of my sisters to appeal to Mom for her help.

At this point it might seem questionable as to why this is a favorite memory. And my answer would be … anticipation. You see, each mile that passed brought me closer to the two people who quite possibly loved me more than my parents. My grandparents. They loved children; especially their grandchildren.

My grandparents lived in a large, green colonial. It had big bedrooms, high ceilings, a wide staircase with a long banister, lots of room to play and hide, and a kitchen that always smelled of spices. I can remember every visit my Gram would wait for with something special she’d just baked. I would barely wait for the car to stop moving before I began to push one of my sisters and yell, “Get out!”

Then, I would race to be first through the back kitchen door. Gram was always there, her arms outstretched. I remember thinking my Gram’s hugs were the best. She was not a large woman, but she was soft and smelled like sugar.

Close behind her was my Grandpa. He would break into a toothless grin and give me a rough squeeze. I rarely remember seeing him with his teeth in but knew he had dentures. They sat in a cup on the bathroom sink. As he loosened his grip, he would whisper in my ear, “Don’t tell your Mom and Dad.” Then he would slip a candy or a quarter into my hand. On special occasions, he would have half dollars for each of us.

My grandparent’s house was my family’s hub. It was where my aunts, uncles, cousins gathered for holidays and family get togethers. It was the place my Dad took us to escape an ice storm and where we spent many vacations. To this day, when I think of home, my mind immediately goes back to that big, green house and the warmth of family.