colby cheese

....walking in through the entry way and into the kitchen, I saw her. To my immediate right was a curious, little bathroom in light pinks. It smelled old and cool. The bathtub sat up higher than the floor and a small window was shaded by light curtains. Straight ahead was a table and a large woodstove. To my left, a counter that ran the length of the room, a sink placed in the middle of the expanse, cupboards above and below. The counter tops were filled with stuff, lots of it. Random and various things; newspapers and mail, kitchen items, and nick nack looking things. But the item I'd always zero in on was the old radio, quietly playing out old hymns.....KTIS in it's more traditional days. Across the room, a refrigerator reigned. And just beside, a door or entry way to a cellar. I didn't know what was beyond that door. It was always forbidden. Walking through the kitchen, we'd stumble across an upright piano, a tv that I don't think ever came on and various seating. The next room was a bedroom? It was odd, instead of a formal living area or parlor, it was converted into a bedroom of sorts. A double bed was pushed against the wall. Beyond this improvised room, a stair wall directed the visitor upwards. But I wasn't the right kind of visitor, because I was never invited up.

It was an oppressive, dismal place. Even with the hymns playing; perhaps they were pleading for hope, convening a message of hope...it didn't matter as it was always lost.

The central figure in with house was Grandma-on-the-farm. This name was to distinguish her from Grandma-in-town. Odd, now that I think of it. These names were informational only, not spoken about with love. No, never much affection was felt.

And so, Grandma-on-the-farm would hover over the sink, slowly pace toward the fridge, then return to the counter. She was petite and she was broad. Her face a study of hard living, depression living. Her eyes were a dark brown, almost like black, a dark black that would remind me of scary things like darkness and fear. Her hair, never styled, lay on her head in mop like appearance. She would reply, but never inquire. More of a scowl was accustomed to her expression than a smile. And when she would laugh, it was cackle-like, not melodic and welcoming. I'd nervously smile along.

I was young and fragile and overly sensitive as a child. My primary mission was to please others and this Grandma-on-the-farm I could not please. We must be quiet. We mustn't fidget. We were shown an occasional outdated and rusty toy to play with. We were invited into the living room, by the piano to play on the floor.

But always, when my siblings and I would visit, we were offered colby cheese.