Meredith’s Musing: The Weekend House

article by Meredith McKinnie

My maternal grandparents’ home still sits in a bend of Bayou Bartholomew, though now with new residents, people I’ve never met. When I ponder my childhood, many memories involve that little house, with the iconic view of the water, where so many Saturdays and Sundays were filled with laughter, learning, and Mamaw and Papaw’s full attention. Being the first local grandchild afforded me all the spoils, and my grandparents imprinted in my little mind what it felt like to be completely wrapped in love and affection.

My grandmother Lorraine relished our weekend visits, or so I remember. We made cookies and nibbled watermelon. She would let me sit on the counter as she fed the rinds down the disposal. I sat in disbelief, as I couldn’t fathom how those large pieces fit into that little pipe under the sink. She would chuckle at my confusion, no doubt seeing the world through my eyes, a luxury of spending time with children adjusting to a big new world. Floor to ceiling windows spanned the length of one wall in the den, providing the picturesque view of the water just yards out the front door. At Christmastime, a big green artificial tree took center stage in the window, and a white picket fence surrounded the base. Two patterned chairs sat on the right side of the room, where Mamaw would sit and read or do crossword puzzles. She always finished the puzzles in record time, with a Number 2 pencil in hand, rarely forced to erase an answer. As I grew older, sometimes she would ask about the pop culture questions. I felt a sense of pride when I contributed the correct response to complete the puzzle. Mamaw needed me, and it felt good to be needed by someone I loved so much.

On the opposite side of the room, an emerald green velour couch spanned the wall, where Papaw lounged. His tall frame took up the entire three sections, and his black cowboy boots stood erect near the window and reached the height of the couch cushions. I would sometimes climb into the boots, and Papaw would chuckle and make some remark about how silly I was. His face was often hidden behind a Louis L’amour western novel. Multiple paperback books spanned the length of his closet on an upper shelf none of us little people could reach. Papaw loved hugs, never shying away from affection. Old pictures show him on the floor with us, his long legs seeming to stretch across the entire room. He smelled of outside and old flannel shirts. A little nub protruded from the middle of his hand where his ring finger should have been. His wedding ring had gotten lodged in a ladder, and when he fell, he lost the finger. In anger, he threw the finger and ring in the bayou, though doctors claim they could have reattached it. To make light of the missing digit, he would pull change out of his pocket, letting it slip through his hand. Early on, I knew different was okay, because Papaw had unique hands.

Mamaw and Papaw’s big king-sized bed wasn’t big enough for the three of us on my overnight visits. As Mamaw and I would emerge from the bath in our pajamas, Papaw would diligently gather his pillow and head toward the back bedroom. Apparently, I kicked violently in my sleep, and Papaw preferred uninterrupted slumber. He never resented my intrusion though, always making light of the bed not being big enough. He wore old man pajamas, flannel pants and button-down nightshirts, not always matching, but always properly fitted. His slippers were as big as his boots, and he would hide them under the corner of the bed to make sure they weren’t hidden by pranksters during the day. Papaw didn’t hear well, and he had this headset so he could listen to the TV and not disturb Mamaw. My sister and I loved to secretly turn the volume to max capacity, and watch from a corner when Papaw placed the set on his head and switched it on. Surely after multiple instances of the same practical joke, he knew what was coming, but allowed us to revel in the triumph. After he recovered from the shock, he would slyly smile and look for the culprits snickering in the corner. He never took offense at being the butt of a joke.

The float boat and dock just down from the house is where I spent many summer days. In the evenings, Papaw would drive us around the bayou, insisting he’d give us a quarter if we could spot the alligators lurking on the surface. The ancient life jackets would cover our ears, muffling the sound of the motor. The breeze off the water ruffled my blond curls, and I can still hear the quiet of nature as we rumbled past, at a slow pace that to a young girl still felt fast. Sometimes Mamaw would come with us, and other times she would be waving from the bayou bank as we returned, assuming she’d finished her puzzle.

Countless memories were made at that house on the water, with two of my favorite people, now joined for eternity. I picture Mamaw in her chair, and Papaw on a green couch somewhere up in heaven. So much has happened in my life since they’ve been gone, Papaw passing 14 years before Mamaw did. I don’t get out that way too often, but when I do, I find myself lingering. I smile when I pass by the house, inevitably slowing my speed to soak up as much recollection as that bayou breeze will allow.