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Adolescent
Growing up across the street from your grandparents has its advantages ... and its adventures!
had the great joy and pleasure of grow- ing up right across the street from my grandparents. They lived in an old white farmhouse built in 1890 that had once been the Kimbal Dairy Farm. Situated on just over an acre by the time I came around, it was set off the road at the end of a long driveway lined with giant oak trees. One of those trees still holds the tire swing Grandpa made for us. Every Friday night I would cross the road to spend the night with them. “Friday night is our night,” Grandma would remind me. So my mom would pack my little red suitcase that, no lie, said “I’m going to Grandma’s house”, and my dad would stand on the front I By Amy McCarter
porch to make sure I survived all the perils of crossing a rural
swinging or rocking, and sipping Diet Cokes. When it was time to turn in, Grandma would make us girls a little pallet in their room under the open window. We’d carefully place our bugs in the sill so they had plenty of air to breathe as we slept. Somehow, even in the middle of summer, their house never felt too hot. The breeze that floated in carried the sound of cicadas singing, and the peaceful- ness of that setting ensured a sound sleep even though we were already anxious for the adventures that awaited us the next day. Likely those adventures would include tinkering in Grandpa’s workshop or on one of his old cars. Or maybe we’d head into town to see if we could find any antiques Grandma couldn’t live without. Little did I know then how much I would come to treasure those precious memories, or how much I would give now to have even one more Friday night with my grandparents in that old white farmhouse.
Kansas road on my own. Grandpa would be waiting on his own porch with the light on. “Hey, Little Bessie,” was his warm greeting. I earned the nickname by reminding him of his mom. Inevitably, the house would smell of the corn they’d just popped, and I’d get a little bowl of it with maybe some cheese or sliced apples sprinkled with salt. We’d watch the evening news, and they’d let me jabber about my day at school. We always turned in early, and poor Grandpa was relegated to the guest room so that Grandma and I could lie in their bed while she read me the entire “Little House on the Prairie” series, one chapter at a time. I’d lay my head on her belly and follow along as she read, her tiny wrinkled hands holding the pages wide. Her white cotton nightgown smelled of the outdoors where it’d dried on the line, and before long the soothing sound of her voice made my eyelids heavy. On extra special occasions, my cousins would arrive in town to stay with us at the old farmhouse. We’d spend summer evenings in the sprawling front lawn catching lightning and lady bugs and trapping them in the bug houses Grandpa had made for us. Our parents lounged on the porch with Grandma and Grandpa,
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Amy is a writer, wife, mother, dog lover, wine drinker and chocolate eater who just published her first book! Find it at amystearman.com.
Amy’s grandparents, Mary and Dwayne, on their wedding day in Wichita, KS, in 1946.
46 vintagekc spring 2015
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