I have been thinking of my father's parents, TG and Rose Hart. They lived in Lebanon, Missouri. Pampa made me a hutch for a black and white rabbit when I was four and we stayed with them during the war and my father was away in the Marines. My mother washed my hair with whisked up shaved ivory soap and egg white. Rinsed in cider vinegar and warm water.
Later, during those wild growing up years, I would visit them in the summer. Lebanon was small enough for me to walk several blocks to the train station where Pampa was the manager. Trains would roar past. Cousin Elaine and I would run around causing havoc and ride on the switch engines with the engineers. Happy times.
They had a big garden with cherry and peach trees, corn, beans and tomatoes. Something about their ease with the environment was so charming and is a treasure to remember.
I roller skated on the sidewalk hopping over tree root lumps with clamp-on metal skates. Got tired of cutting corn off cobs for canning and snapping green beans.
The house had many dark bedrooms and tall living room windows, a big front porch on the main street of town where the whole family could sit or rock in the swing and (kids) walk along the fat cement railing trying to get up the columns onto the roof.
And the basement! Adolescent Mystery Dungeon Dream.
My appreciation to grandparents everywhere!
