Welcome to AIM's Website!

Tra la, it’s May, the lusty Month of May

That lovely Month when everyone goes blissfully astray…    

Camelot Soundtrack

May—who cannot like it!  It brings warmer, sunny days as  flowers wink with delight, and the ‘Maroons’ play the ‘Yellows’ on just about every park that has a baseball diamond in Baltimore.  May, too, pauses to honor our Mothers.  As part of celebrating our Mothers and Grandmothers, I want to share with  you an essay that tells the special memories of a young girl visiting her Grandmother on …

Creighton Avenue

We drive past the familiar gas station, turn right, and there it is.  Creighton Avenue.  My grandparents’ street slopes downward, lined with sleepy, old homes and a meandering sidewalk.  If we continue to follow it, we’ll reach a dead end and a small park with swings and a jungle gym.  I glance down this road, a fleeting memory of childhood visits to the park flutters through my mind.  The car turns right and we come face to face with a small wooden house.  The swings on the porch sway in excitement welcoming us—the girl who once lived here and her two daughters.  My Mom reaches her old front door first; my sister and I close behind.

This house makes me feel at home.  Everything about it reminds me of my grandmother and grandfather.  A smile sneaks onto my face as I spot decorative gnomes peaking outfrom the bushes, too many gnomes for such a small property, but endearing gnomes just the same.  Pressing the doorbell we do not hear a common ring, but instead a melody chosen and programmed according to the season.  We show ourselves in.   

My eyes are immediately overwhelmed by too much to look at.  Everywhere there are photos—most of relatives and friends of mine, but plenty of unfamiliar faces as well.  An audience of knick-knacks and figurines watches as we lug our suitcases inside.  Not only do these objects look pretty or play music, but many can dance, sing and talk as well.  You have to be prepared for an onslaught of curious noises if you clap inside this house.  The room where we stand is small to begin with, but would not be nearly as cramped without the myriad of figures, each with its own personality and significance.

At Christmas there is the jolly old Saint Nicholas who shakes his hips like Elvis as he sings Jingle Bell Rock and Frosty the Snowman who lights up in flashing yellow, blue and green, bouncing violently around the table on which he sits.  But at Halloween there are even more decorations.  It is my grandmother’s birthday, and she has received many a broom and ugly warty-faced witch as presents over the years. One of my favorites always on display is a three-dimensional puzzle of a woman’s head.  She might look elegant and sophisticated were it not for the curly blond locks of a wig that hang in tendrils around her face.

Then I see them--our reason for driving ten hours from New Hampshire to Baltimore.  Granny K shuffles over and pulls me into her surprisingly strong embrace.  Taking my face in both hands and looking into my eyes, she says (like always), “You are looking more and more like your grandmother every day.  You lucky girl!”  Thanks, Granny.

After a hug and a kiss, Pop draws me aside.  He points out the new members of the household I had previously observed, showing me their tricks or relating their stories.  He tells me a joke he heard recently and his forget-me-not blue eyes crinkle and disappear as he chuckles at my reaction.

“Get your bags upstairs and unpack before your meal gets cold!” the matriarch orders.  “I’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day!”

With the promise of crab soup and fried chicken upon my return, I carry my bags up the tilting, narrow staircase that leads to three small bedrooms.  I always stay in my Mother’s old bedroom.  Stacked high in every corner are boxes filled with accumulated presents of clothing or empty and waiting to be used during the holidays.

I toss some clothes in the drawers and admire various art projects (some of my own) that decorate the dresser.  The bed is squeaky and, I must admit, not the most comfortable.  I unfold the familiar Minnie Mouse bedspread and lay it across the mattress.

Hurrying down the stairs to taste those smells that have reached my nostrils, I can’t help but stop as I spy the portraits hanging on the wall.  Although I have examined them closely many times, I love to gaze at the faces of my relatives.  On the top step is a large frame with many snapshots of my parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and my sister and me.  Next are black and white grade school pictures of my Mother and her three brothers.  A wedding photo displays in grainy detail the youthful versions of my grandparents.  Finally, at the bottom are clustered photos of family reunions, old friends and, of course, a newspaper article from March 1939.  “Playground draws nine from one family.  Mrs. Troy calls her fourteen children a regiment.” (There were actually fifteen children; Aunt Patsy was not yet born.)  This photo shows my grandmother and siblings, ages from about three to thirteen, holding hands, not exactly your picture of a ferocious army contingent.  I always smile when I reach this frame.  I have nearly memorized the article.

When we are all in the kitchen, it is hard to move around, but once everyone finds a seat and is content to remain in that position, the size of the room is perfect.  The soup is just a little bit spicy, pieces of veggies and strips of crab float in orangey-red liquid.  We pick crab shells out of our teeth—proof that the soup really is homemade.  Oh, the fried chicken!  I pile my plate high.  For weeks I have been anticipating the taste of this particular chicken.  It is simple, greasy, not entirely healthful, and delicious.  After only a few minutes, all that remains of our meal are the orange stains inside the bowls and a few grease marks on the paper plates.  We are all uncomfortably full.  We sit back to look at pictures or sharpen our attention for a cutthroat game of Pig.

This house may not have the luxuries and comforts of many others that I know, but what it lacks in style, it makes up for in memories.  It is like a wishing well filling up with pennies from different people, times and places.  As time goes on, those shiny treasures increase greatly in number.  But, there will always be room for more…at grandmother’s house.

Bridgette Black*

    Happy Mother’s Day!

Sincerely,

PatriciaTroy Chalfant

Executive Director

*Bridgette Black is 17 years old and lives in Hanover, New Hampshire with her Mom and Dad, her sister Klarey, and their dog, Maggie Mae. Bridgette is looking forward to attending college next year.  She is my great niece.

You are visitor number

CALENDAR PREVIEW