Thursday, April 30, 2020
Though my relationship with my grandma and grandpap was strained over the last few years, I will always remember going to visit them as a child.
I remember the food: the city chicken, the beef with mushrooms in gravy, honeycomb cereal for breakfast, grandpap making his oatmeal, and having green (bitey) onions with dinner, the kolachi, cherikee red soda, grandma always in the kitchen cooking and listening to the polka radio station in between the news.
I remember the house, how the stairs to the second floor seemed gigantic to my younger self, the books of stories I would read to fall asleep, snooping for presents in the closet (and usually getting caught), the landscaping that I’d sit on at least once a visit and get oil on my pants, playing the toy instruments that were out at Christmas, playing with marbles, Atari and building sets in the basement, marveling at the airplane parts and grandpap’s clocks.
I remember family, watching football in the den with the aunts, uncles, and cousins, taking a ride to Greensburg or Monroeville in Grandpap’s big green car, or going to the airfield to fly in his plane, getting a few seconds holding the controls and turning.
I remember the town as it modernized, the EMS station, and trying to rollerblade on the sloping streets, usually ending up with me tumbling into the grass to stop, and flying kites in the back yard.
In a lot of ways Grandma and Grandpap inspired me, rewarding me for knowing my abc’s or counting to 100. The first time I played Super Nintendo was at their house, on a black and white tv. Seeing the innards of the clocks drove my interest in tinkering.
These memories I’ll cherish forever, and share with my family so Grandpap is never forgotten.
204 Eagle Street
