Grandma's House

Well, it’s official today that Grandma’s house is gone. Maybe it’s the historian in me or I’ve been endowed with a greater feeling of nostalgia than some people. I’m having a pretty hard time letting go. I know it’s only a house, but to me, it has been something more. After 70 years, it is no longer the Cooper house. Someone I don’t know will be moving in creating their own memories within those walls, slowly stripping away the memories that made it “our house.”

I know it seems strange. It’s only a house, after all; four walls, roof and windows. But it’s the house in which my grandmother raised her family, my mother grew up, and I learned many important lessons. For a short time after I was born, it was the house I lived in, too

I can’t remember my Grandfather Cooper, but I spent a lot of time with my grandmother. She used to be the historian for the Village of Lyndonville and the Town of Yates and had her office in two filing cabinets in the den. It was these two cabinets that sparked my love of history, especially local and family history. Most summers I stayed at her house through much of the summer break and would explore the contents of her historical files.

It was at Grandma’s house where I also discovered hitting on girls. Aside from a brief Kindergarten “marriage,” I really had no interaction with girls. However, by age 12 or 13, I noticed one of the girls who lived across the street from the house. Of course in my ever endearing style, I attempted to grab her attention by hiding in a tree and lobbing water balloons at her and her friends as they rode back and forth on their bicycles. Yeah, it was definitely not the smartest of moves, but they did keep riding. We never dated, but we have been friends since.

I learned to ride a moped at Grandma’s house. The neighbor would allow me to ride his contraption around the yard while he and Grandma sat and chatted through iced tea. One summer I wore a path all around the yard as I rode around and around and around.

I kept a bicycle there so I had a way to get around town when I was staying there.  There was a stump in the back yard that was hilled up a bit and I would ride my bike as fast as I could toward it and use the speed to get airborne. My Dad, one time, decided that he would show me how to get real air with that bike. Off he went on my bike, gathering speed to make the jump. Well, he hit the stump and flew alright – right over the handlebars and into a tumble on the ground.

Grandma will be 94 in March. She lived in her house until she was 91. She just couldn’t live on her own anymore, so she went to the nursing home in Medina. That first summer, Wendy and I broke her out of the asylum to take her back to the house for our annual Independence Day picnic. That may have been the last time she was at the house. We continued to use the house as Home Base for those July festivities. It looks like that annual tradition is over for our family for 2014. Our young family will likely start a new tradition with their cousins in Royalton.

In the past year or so, I’ve made a conscious effort not to go back down to the house. It’s different. With no one living there, it’s just not a home anymore. In addition, the family, me included, has ransacked the house for items we want. Each time something leaves the house, it was like another piece of the very fabric of the house was being ripped away. The last two times I went there, I took photos of the whole house. I wanted something I could remember things by, and I lost out on that luxury with my other grandmother’s house.

During these last visits, it was all I could do to keep my composure while walking through. The house had been totally picked over and was completely devoid of any semblance of a home. The walls and floor themselves seemed to sag with loneliness.  I walked my family through each room telling stories from my childhood. We looked in every corner, every nook and cranny, merely exploring the secrets in the shadows.

At the same time, I daydreamed, telling Wendy what I would do to the house if we were to buy it. It would be a major undertaking, both financially and the amount of work. And really would I want to move the kids to Lyndonville? While it’s a nice little village, it doesn’t present the same opportunities to them that they have in Lockport.

The empty rooms appeared so much smaller than they had when they were lived in. Again, it seemed like the house was folding in on itself with sadness. That sadness was contagious and both Wendy and I felt it.

I know we can’t hold onto everything forever. But some things shouldn’t be just tossed aside without a second thought. I know that the rest of my grandmother’s family has not had an easy time with the sale of the house either. After so many years of being such a huge part of our lives, it’s hard letting go. We all think we’re immortal. We all think our parents will always be there. Unfortunately, the truth is a harsh mistress. We all get older. Generations move on. Ancestors become just a name on a page.

I don’t want to let go. I want that house in Lyndonville to always be Grandma’s house. I want my kids to know that as “Old Grannie’s house.” The house will still be there, but the memories we hold about the place will fade over time.  I’m not ready for that. So, I will be writing about Grandma’s house. I cannot forget all the great times I had there. Experiences I had at that house partly made me the person I am today. Some things should never be forgotten.