Notes on my Grandma and Alcova

    I feel that I miss the dirt of Alcova - the rusty red sandy dirt of that small Wyoming town.  Addendum – this was the home of my Grandma Edna and Grandpa Casey.  I remember the smell of the dirt, like freshwater from a lake.  It was the smell that ran through Grandma and Grandpa’s water.  It was the smell that covered my body when I showered there.  The smell that stayed on the sheets and blankets after they were washed and hung up to dry.  I smell it today when I think of my childhood days at Alcova, covered in rusty dirt, planting watermelon seeds under the porch at their house, or looking for tomatoes in the rattlesnake infested garden.
         I think of Grandma with a sun hat on.  She kneels in the garden, showing me how to keep your eyes and ears open for unfriendly rattles.  I see her in the early mornings, fixing breakfast with my mother in the small kitchen.  She makes creamy oatmeal, the likes that I could never imitate.  She is preeminent in the kitchen.  Forever in my mind as the creator of the best spaghetti, ruler of the bread machine, the Queen of cabbage rolls.
         She is there by the Alcova dam putting a worm on a hook for me.  Helping us kids reel in a fish or two.  Pudging up her face and throwing a sucker back in.
         I laugh at the bras she would hang up in the shower.  I laugh at the pie tins that she would hoard away in the cabinets.  The endless piles of newspapers kept under the house.  The yards of fabric that would never be used.  I laugh at the jars of change that she would hide around the house.
         She was the packrat who gave us Eskimo kisses at night.  She was the one who showed us how to make a bed with hospital corners.
         I miss hearing her stories of Washington and swimming with jellyfish. I miss her.
         I remember my freshman years at college.  She would drive in an old Ford Station wagon and picking me up at the dorm to take me to Alcova.  I loved spending time there, just her and me sitting watching the boob toob.  I would borrow a nightgown and pretend I was a classic 1940’s actress prancing around in an old silk nightgown with a silk robe.  Grandma would bring out the picture albums.  And we would sit side by side on the couch as Grandma remembered the names of all the people in the pictures, as well as the places and what exactly was going on that day.
         The times I spent in Alcova alone with her served as a refuge for me.  For you see, I was homesick and loved the isolation of Alcova compared to the bustling business of Casper.
         I remember the last day I ever saw that house.  It was a hot summer day.  I went with my brother, my Aunt Deanna, Uncle Bill, and my Aunt Deanna’s friend Debbie to help get my Uncle Bills old car.  The house had been recently sold and the new owner had yet to move in.
         Although I did not go inside the empty house that day, my minds eye saw the house.  It would be small and smell like stale bread.  There would be no aerie lofts in the house.  It would all be pinched in, tight, constricting, a void as unwelcoming as a Monday morning.  I believe the house has shrunk without my grandmother.  Just as she shrank and withered with old age.  She may not have remembered me toward the end, but I know I loved her - my grandma Edna.