Growing Up With Grandparents

In her grandparents house, a little girl finally found a home. 

By Randall Roberts

From age four to seven, I lived with my grandparents in the Morningside Addition on the south side of my hometown.

Vaguely similar homes dominated the blue-collar neighborhood, tricking you into wrong turns and dead ends. My grandparents’ three-bedroom, split-level house was the type you’d drive by and not even notice: white, void of accent colors, and only one sparse tree in the front yard.

My parents were divorcing. My mom moved me to my grandparents’ house to both literally and figuratively shelter me from the pain of watching that event unfold. In that nondescript house, with only a child’s idea of my parents’ separation, I was intensely happy for the first time in my short life. New memories of a safe home pushed aside painful memories of a broken one. Kind and gentle words replaced hostile yells.

Through the Garage
As is typical in the Midwest, we entered the house through the garage. Grandpa’s workshop consumed the far corner, though he rarely used it by the time I lived with them. Sometimes he refinished furniture, and sometimes he tinkered on a car with my uncle. Grandpa couldn’t do much. Severely crippled by rheumatoid arthritis, he barely walked, though only in his 60s at the time. His hands, a necessary tool for his occupation, a picture framer, were deformed. His fingers bent painfully inward, and his neck bowed slightly to the right.

Despite these limitations, Grandpa never complained. Instead, he moved slowly and purposefully, never shirking responsibilities. “We’re off like a herd of turtles,” he'd say, grateful for his still lingering mobility.

The garage attached to the basement, which contained everything a child could want: an old trampoline, an out-of-tune piano, a bright orange divan, and boxes of my mom and uncle’s toys. I spent hours rummaging through boxes and creating obstacle courses. Huge in proportion to my small stature, the room felt like mine. 

Sixteen steps separated the basement from the living room. Grandpa counted each one on the way up, stopping at the landing by the front door to rest. He'd placed one misshapen hand on the door checking to make sure I closed it the last time I ran outside. If I didn't, which was most often the case, he'd playfully yell out at me, “You weren’t raised in a barn.” 

Once at the top of the stairs, Grandpa hobbled into the living room. His box television overwhelmed one corner of the open space; the sofa ran across the wall adjacent to it. Grandpa’s destination, a worn recliner, sat somewhere in between. Grandpa was hard of hearing, and even though he wore hearing aids, he still sat as close to the TV as possible (and Grandma allowed).

Grandpa watched true crime shows, and I sat next to him on the brown wall-to-wall carpet, listening to his commentary. When something spooky happened on Unsolved Mysteries, he'd ask if it scared me.

“No,” I'd say.

“Good, It shouldn’t scare you if it’s not in front of you.”

Grandma's messy kitchen. The dishwasher no longer worked, rather than replace it Grandma taped a butter tub over the buttons to remind Grandpa and guests not to run it.

Into the Kitchen
The living room opened into the kitchen, where Grandma scurried across the linoleum baking brownies, cooking meatloaf, or listening to Dr. Laura on the radio. I'd poke my head in, and she'd undoubtedly invite me to join her mess—never too busy for her first granddaughter.

Bills, receipts, and recipes blanketed the counters. Items Grandma planned on repurposing—mayonnaise jars, butter containers, and bread bags—seeped out of the cabinets. As Grandma cooked, the kitchen exploded. Every cabinet door opened, and every utensil appeared on the counter. But she scrupulously measured every ingredient, and when she finished—and not a second before—she scrubbed the kitchen clean. “A good cook is messy, but careful,” she'd say.

A long hallway connected the kitchen to the bedrooms. When I moved in, Grandma and Grandpa converted their spare bedroom, the first door on the left, into my room. That didn’t mean doing much. No furniture was replaced; no knickknacks were cleared. I slept in a queen bed. Grandma’s collections, as she called them, remained tucked away in dresser drawers and stuffed in the closet. Grandpa’s prints—tokens from a life as a picture framer—still hung on the wall. Child-size clothes offered the only clues the room belonged to a little girl. None of that mattered to me. I knew no different, and I spent little time in my room.

Grandma and I pose with our pumpkin.

To burn off energy, Grandma and Grandpa pushed me outside. I hunted four-leaf clovers and daddy longlegs, and when Grandma came out with me, we played follow the leader.

Grandma’s garden filled the back of the large and otherwise bare yard. Raised on a farm, Grandma took pride in her garden. Together, we watered and weeded it. As long as I took care of it, I could grow what I wanted. One summer, I chose a pumpkin, and after a few months of caring for it, Grandma and I picked it.

“You did it,” Grandma said. Under her praise, I never felt so big.

Grandma and Grandpa moved out of that house about 10 years after me. They’re both gone now—a fact that will forever cripple me. I drive by that house, and despite its muted exterior, I see Grandma’s mess in the kitchen and smell her brownies in the oven. I see Grandpa relaxing in his recliner and maneuvering the steps. But what I see doesn't compare to what I feel. Inside, I feel deep gratitude, unconditional love, and enduring respect for my grandparents.