...so make this holiday weekend unlike any other

About a three years ago, there was a post here about the kitchen in my grandparents home in Abercrombie, ND. It's not clear why, but for some reason it seemed to resonate with some people who fondly recalled a similar setting from some point in their past. Though this is an awfully low bar, it was also among the most popular posts to appear on this site. It’s been updated but be forewarned, part of this post is a retread. That said, I’m hoping it will stir a memory or two for more than a few of you.

 I’m sure I’ve heard many screen doors slam over the course of my lifetime, but the one I’ve heard swing shut the most was on the back door of my grandpa and grandma’s old house in the small Midwest hamlet of Abercrombie, North Dakota. The door was on the north side of the back of the house…right off of the kitchen…and though I haven’t been in that place in over 25 years, I can close my eyes and hear it slam just like it was yesterday.

 As you walked up the old wood steps from the backyard into the rear of the house, there were some stairs that went up into an attic area above the kitchen. I never really went up there a whole lot as there didn’t seem to be much up there but dusty old junk, cobwebs, stacks of papers and Boo Radley lurking just around the corner.  

Behind the back door to the left of the staircase that went to that attic, were a couple of old cans, hanging winter barn coats, a few soiled farmer’s coop ball caps and some old rifles leaning against the wall. One of those guns was a loaded 410 shotgun that my grandparents used to keep by the door at the farm. It was handy to have ready in the event that a pheasant appeared or a wild turkey sauntered by...but that was about all. That gun sat there for at least 50 plus years (probably longer), and to my knowledge nobody ever got a hankering to take it to a cafe, post office, school or to the local movie house...or anywhere where they'd randomly ruin lives. That 410 (unloaded) hangs in the basement of my home now...and an occasional glance at it is always reminder of a much simpler time.

If you turned immediately to the right you were in the kitchen. Man…that room was classic. I’m sure the original linoleum was white…but it looked almost yellow…or at least partly yellow now…I suspect from the years of sunlight and meat and potatoes meal preparations. There was an old gas stove to the left where my grandpa made strong black coffee the Scandinavian way…by pouring the grounds from the can directly into the boiling coffee pot.

Just around the left of the stove was the cellar. I was always afraid to go down there as a kid...you had to descend some creaky old wood stairs before getting to the dirt floor basement to the pull chain that operated the single porcelain light fixture. The few times I remember venturing down there to fetch one of my grandmother’s canned fruit jars for dinner (which we ate at noon) or supper, it was always more than a little creepy. Plus...when Boo wasn’t in the attic…I’m pretty sure the cellar was his favorite spot to just hang.

Across from the radiator on the south side of the room was the American made General Electric refrigerator. It too appeared to be from sometime in the 1940s…and at least to me, it seemed to be one of the first post-ice box electrical appliances that actually contained a condenser to refrigerate air. It was white enamel, and judging from the huge chromed latch handle that looked better suited as a hatch on a WWII era submarine, it may have just as well been built by the U.S. Navy. Though I never had to lift it, I suspect it weighed about as much as a modern day Lexus SUV…and I know it was built better and lasted longer too. If you opened the freezer door (on top behind the big door), the actual freezer compartment always appeared to be filled with more frost than food. On top of the refrigerator was a worn King James bible, and a small monthly daily devotional called "Our Daily Bread."

In the center of the room, between the refrigerator and the radiator, the four-seat kitchen table had a Formica top with a metal band around the perimeter. The table's chairs were metal too, with plastic seat cushions. I’m 52 and  on my fourth kitchen table…and all of them were probably in much better shape when I got rid of them than the old kitchen table in my grandpa’s kitchen. In all my years visiting that house, from sometime in the 1960s until the early 1990s, I don't believe that table ever changed…and I know it was made in America too.  In the center of the table there was a glass salt and pepper shaker, with the dented metal stainless tops like you see in restaurants. There was always an old metal creamer too…with real cream…just like you’d expect to see in some old school Midwestern café.

 

Growing up in Los Angeles, I wasn’t there for every breakfast at that North Dakota table, but every morning I was, the ritual was always exactly the same. The menu didn’t vary much. It was usually some some type of meat (usually bacon), some variation of eggs that were fried in the grease provided by the meat, piles of white toast (usually Wonder bread), and slabs of real Land O’ Lakes butter. Slabs. If you needed more grease, there was always an old coffee can with old cooking grease in the cupboard just under the sink. There was always a cup of sugar cubes on the table too, and my grandpa would pour his coffee onto the saucer (to let it cool) and slurp it off the small dish... often while sucking on a sugar cube that he’d soaked with coffee on the saucer. When we were done eating, I’d always grab a maple leaf cookie or four from the formica counter top that ran along the west wall of the kitchen.

Once we were done eating, grandpa would fetch the old bible and the daily devotional from the top of the refrigerator. In all the days I was in that house, I don’t ever recall him missing this daily routine. He would read the assigned short simple lesson from the pamphlet (that somehow tied a short story to a bible verse), and then recite a couple of passages from the associated scripture. After that, he would slap the bible shut and enthusiastically pray. Every day until she passed away, he would ask for relief for my ailing grandmother, and usually request some help to ensure a bountiful wheat and soybean harvest. On the days I was there, he would almost always include thanks for the visit and appeal for my safe return trip home. He wound up every prayer the same way…by saying   “…and so again we pray…” and much like that slamming screen door…I can close my eyes and hear his thick Swedish accent still today.

 

There was something about the stability of that scene that I thought would be there forever.  My grandmother passed away in the late 70’s, and my grandpa died in 1991. Though it’s been well over 25 years since I’ve sat in that kitchen, in my mind’s eye, I can see us all sitting there like it was yesterday.

What’s the point of all this? Not sure really. Could be it’s all I could come up with at 4:00am on an early Maundy Thursday morning. Could also be that as I get older, there’s somehow a greater sense of priorities. The older I get, the less I think about all the work-related crap I often feel should demand all my time…and the more I reflect on the people that have touched my life.

 

You’re on the cusp of a big holiday weekend, so whether you’re coloring eggs or asking why tonight is unlike any other, try to do something fun with the people and pets that matter the most to you. When you get to the end, you’ll be thinking a lot less about your job…and a lot more about places like your grandma and grandpa’s kitchen and the people that were sitting around the table.  

...but through the haze I see your face