Grandfather’s house harbors lifetime of memories

It was a funeral that called me home early, but not the one I might have expected.

My father’s sister, at age 84, slipped off this earth in the middle of the night last month. My maternal grandfather, on the other hand, checked out of the hospital later that week to celebrate his 101st birthday.

Even my grandfather’s birthday party felt more poignant this year. He was hospitalized for dehydration during one of South Dakota’s recent heat waves. We believe he forgot to drink enough water and hesitated to flip on his air conditioning as the temperature climbed.

He came home to the cottage-style stucco, painted white with red trim, that he and my grandmother built for around $3,900 in 1936. It’s the magical house of open arms and roasting turkeys I’ve returned to my entire life. Yet this summer my grandfather appears frailer. A place that would serve him three meals a day and look after him around the clock finally sounds appealing.

As his daughters fretted over the options, Grandpa took charge of his life, just like always.

One day after he returned home, he parked his walker in the hallway and told my uncle he was going to back his car into the driveway. The next thing my uncle knew, my grandfather’s car sailed past the house. He headed down the street, up the viaduct and across the river of his small town, turning back into the driveway to say: “I just had to see if I could still do it.”

As the days wore on, the discussions continued. In the end, Grandpa himself found the solution. An old friend called him from a family care home in a nearby town. “This is a great place, George,” his buddy said. “You should come and join us.”

So as my time at home wound down, I visited my grandfather in the house that he’s tended for 70 years, perhaps for the last time.

As usual, he beckoned for me to sit on the floor in front of him. One more time, he rubbed my shoulders and lifted my head with his strong hands to stretch out my spine. Eighty years ago, before he bought a lumber yard, he took lessons to become a barber. The massage tricks he learned then still have the power to calm my worries.

I cling to a hunch that I’ll see my grandfather again. But his house is another story.

It’s been there every moment of my life. Until her death in 1989, my grandmother lived there, too. I can still hear the delight in her voice as she greeted me at the kitchen door in a waft of White Shoulders perfume. It was the place of gifts and surprises. There my grandfather pursued another love after my grandmother died, built a violin when he was 90, and just two years ago pulled another new car into the garage.

On this last visit, I toured every hidden corner. I took along my 3-year-old niece, a wide-eyed little girl with pale curls who loves to dress up like a fairy, and my bespectacled 9-year-old nephew, a boy who sang before he could speak. I showed them the backyard where we pulled taffy, the stone front steps where my sister and I trooped out in old formals and played beauty pageant, and the site of the overgrown jungle beyond the pond where we found adventure. The children listened carefully.

Inside the house, I taught them to shoot pool in the basement and lingered in my grandfather’s wood shop. The son of Danish immigrants, he built the maple-framed chair that now sits in my family room. Upstairs, I toured the attic and remembered where the Nancy Drew books, the dress-up box and the carton of my grandparents’ love letters used to stand.

I paused for long moments before the family photos.

In my favorite picture my grandfather stretches out in his living room recliner. It’s about 1958, and a toddler with light brown curls and a pink sleeper snoozes in his arms. I’m that little girl. He’s been holding me as long as I can remember.

Last weekend my grandfather stood in the doorway again to watch my car pull away.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to either of the vessels that have sheltered my grandfather’s spirit all these years. I dread another phone call that will send me flying home.

But last weekend a little girl who pretends she’s a fairy and a singing boy helped beckon me into the future.

I know that the red and white cottage and my grandfather’s strong arms will travel there with me. Just like my grandmother’s joy-filled voice, they will live on.