That is what my library looked like this afternoon when I walked past it. Of course, it's a library/toy/puzzle/playroom to be technical. The Glen Den is another playroom with baskets of toys and I'll never forget how after we bought this house and moved in and I bought an old rocking chair that's as comfortable as worn cotton nightgown Mr. Moon said to me, "You know, you've bought a grandmother house."
I was shocked.
"What? No! I'm not ready for grandchildren!"
I was only forty-nine, not quite fifty then. And I suppose I wasn't quite ready for grandchildren but before I knew it, grandchildren were ready for me. We've lived here almost seventeen years and now have five grands. Owen will be twelve this year.
It has been a grand grandmother house. And grandfather house. If I can predict one thing, it will be that my grandchildren will remember this house with great fondness with its kid-easy decor, the toys and books and places to hide and the wooden island in the kitchen where food appears as if by magic, their special cups in the cupboards, the hallway where puzzles can be done on the floor and dancing can be done. And of course the chickens who come around for treats and lay eggs to be found, an every day Easter miracle, the yard where over a century's worth of shards and bits of pottery and strange iron things can be found, the railroad track right behind the chicken coop where trains still thunder past, loud and muscular as they carry things from east to west, from west to east.
What of all of this will they remember? Will certain smells take them back to my kitchen where silly colorful things hang on the wall, where there is always something to eat, something going on? Will they remember cuddle puddles on Mer and Bop's bed with cousins and mamas? Will we ever get to have cuddle puddles again? Will they remember books read on the love couch, the laughing when family gets together? Will they remember baths in Mer's big tub?
Will Owen remember the Mr. Peep story?
I hope so.
I am not being morose here. I am simply thinking about the times that we've had with the children in this house. All of the bacon and pancake breakfasts, the purple cows, the snacks of sourdough bread with butter, playing the matching game, playing Battle and learning their numbers. The kisses good-night. The snuggles and sweetness, the smell of freshly washed toddlers, the diapers changed, the first steps taken, the first words spoken, the quiet, deep gratitude that my husband and I have shared, knowing that it was our love that brought these beautiful babies into our lives, never imagining at our beginning that what we felt for each other could lead to all of this which has made us love each other so much that we don't really have the vocabulary to express it.
I am just waxing nostalgic. I suppose that part of that is the knowledge that we may all be sitting on a pile of lighter wood that is just waiting for a lit match to find its gas-soaked center. I want us all to be able to live our lives. Our completely prosaic and ordinary lives with their struggles and sorrows, their joys and their trials, their tribulations and their celebrations.
I want everyone to be safe.
I want growth to be possible.
I want things to be better.
It's been a good day. I spent some of it on my knees in the garden, weeding greens in the sunshine, the bluest sky above me, the sweetest air around me. Peace in all regards.