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Christina Hudgins Professor Presnell English 1103 1 October 2012 An Unparalleled Sanctuary It was a perfectly normal winter day, very close to Christmas. Snow was softly falling outside the window in our living room. My sister, best friend, mom, and I were all settled down, watching old T.V. shows. Suddenly, all the happiness and carefree feeling of that day disappeared. My dad had called my mom telling her that his mom, my grandma, had just passed away. After my mom told us, I remember Amy dropping the hairbrush she was using to braid my hair and my sister and I melted into silent tears. All I could think of was, Ill never see her again, Ill never get to tell her how much she meant to me. It was so surreal having someone who was always there for us since the beginning of our lives leaving forever. Regret flooded through my heart, reflecting on how I had distanced myself from her through the years. My mind wandered to when we used to go over to her house when I was small. We would always go over to my grandmas house in the late afternoon, right around dusk. My favorite time to go was at the beginning of the school year, in early Autumn. The sun would be low in the sky, still giving a little heat to our skin but not enough to keep us indoors. Welcoming us on the front porch was my grandma, always wearing a white button down blouse with possibly a cat pin near the pocket and a long, pastel colored skirt. She wore giant glasses that covered her entire face and though her hair was far from the vibrant orange it used to be in her youth, her curls were always in tacked and well placed. Stay sweet! she would whisper to us, giving us each a warm hug and many kisses. We would go through her cluttered living room,

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filled with all sorts of nick knacks such as dolls from different countries, paintings that she had made herself, different fabrics, and just about anything you can think of relating to cats, her favorite animal. On the ceiling there was a distinct crack that ran across the entire living room, left by someone slamming a door too hard. The furniture was all mixed matched and coarse to the touch, but was oddly comfortable and always made me sleepy. Past the television playing a game show with the volume probably thirty notches louder than it actually had to be, we went into the kitchen for a snack of salty and somewhat stale club crackers, vanilla cream cookies, and a few pieces of chocolate. Even though I had never eaten much that she cooked, there was always the lingering smell of onions that were never seen in the room. She never failed to have a half eaten, rotten banana on the counter that I guess she was saving for later. But the inside of her house was just a precursor for the real adventure, going to the backyard. Grandma Rachel lived on a tributary off the Elizabeth River in Portsmouth, Virginia. Her backyard was like having our own private campsite. Giant gumball trees grew all around, the balls piercing our feet and legs as we daringly ran around them in our flip flops. When we were feeling exceptionally daring, we rolled down the small hill leading to the water to our grandmas dismay. A dark brown, always wet looking dock that was rotten and falling apart lay just at the waters edge. Not much was known about this dock, other than a time when my father and his brothers attempted to build a boat . This was a failed attempt, unfortunately, their boat sinking to the bottom of the creek right after being casted off. My dad would take my sister and I out back and show us all the wonders of nature surrounding the area. With the strange, earthy scent of low tide always seeming to be in the air, we would walk down as quiet as we could through the muck to the waters edge to see if we could sneak a peak at the hermit crabs that sometimes

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came out at night. I remember the different layers of clay and how the browns of that earth would contrast so sharply with the hermit crabs shells. Off the coast a ways was a post covered from top to bottom with periwinkles, beautifully shining in the last of the days sun. I remember feeling the uneven earth under my dads feet as he held me on his shoulders, pointing out all the different types of trees by their rough bark, identifying the squawking flocks of birds which flew over us as we walk. My grandma would then come out, the screen door squeaking loudly as if it needed repair and then slamming with a big bang. Whoa!, she would holler for us to come over to her picnic table, with a strange sort of call like no other person could mimic. With her cats around her legs, fur all matted with dirt and food from a long day in the yard, she would herd us closer. She then placed some antique piece from long ago on the table and proceed to tell us exactly how she came upon it and for what it was used. We would sit on the uncomfortably rough bench in awe, wanting to hold it and play with it but knowing just looking was the safest thing to do. Realizing that we were getting restless and tired, my dad would finally take us over to the dogwood tree to see how high we could climb that day. The wind would sweep through our hair as my sister and I raced to see who got higher, she always won. I remember there was a garden near that tree that was all fenced in with a few flowers, but never really used. We used to run sticks back and forth over the cold, hard fence. In front of that fence was a long clothesline that at one time I had cut my ear on when I was playing during the day. It hurt terribly, but my grandma always knew the right things to do when I was upset, namely cookies. When the crickets began to chirp and all the light of day had gone out for the night, we knew that it was time to go home. Reluctantly, we would drag ourselves to the cement driveway, multicolored and weathered from the many storms which had hit over the years, to say our final goodbyes to

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Grandma. She would repeat again to always be sweet and again gave us both hugs and kisses. As we drove away, around the small island in the middle of her cul-de-sac, we could still see the light from the television in her living room, most likely blaring, The Price is Right throughout the house.

As I got older, I would make up petty excuses to skip going to see her, having too much homework or being too tired from dance practices. All of a sudden I hated myself for being so selfish toward one of the most selfless people I had known. She would give all that time and energy into making my sister and I happy with her silly stories and games we played all those years, though she could have been doing better things with her time then watching kids play for hours. Once I got older, however, I did not even think twice on choosing a bigger social life than family life which I regret terribly. My friends were wonderful, but none of them loved me more than she had. I remember, when it got closer to that December, I went to the nursing home with my parents to see my grandmother after she had an extensive surgery on her hip. I was standing in the hallway alone while my parents were in another room taking care of some paperwork. Suddenly, I could hear from down the hall my beautiful grandmother screaming, literally shrieking, from her hospital bed from her pain, calling my dad to come and make it stop. I could not take the hurt in her voice and started bawling, my parents had to lead me out of home. I could not get myself to go back to that place and that was the last time I saw my grandma before she died. I wish this wasnt the last memory I had of my grandma. She was such a strong women, with solid values and a giant heart. Her heart was opened to all who came to her, from the nosey

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woman who lived across the street from her to the stray cats that sometimes past through her spacious yard, to the family that from time to time took her for granted. She had a steadfast love for life and the lives of others that was rare and beautiful. After the funeral for my grandma, my parents, reluctantly, cleaned out and sold my grandmas house. Before the new owners came to move in, I went back over one last time with my parents to pick up a few miscellaneous things. Walking through the house again I notice it had a new flare to it. I fresh coat of paint in the kitchen maybe and hard wood floors in the garage, but when I looked out the window to the backyard the same sanctuary from my childhood glowed from the setting sun. I remembered that not only was this house where my father and his brothers played and grew up, it was also where my sister and I called home. More than the curiosity which streamed through the whole atmosphere of her backyard, I felt a flood of love coming from every person there. From my sister teaching me new games to my dad sharing the knowledge he learned when he was a child in the same place, and, of course, my grandmother spreading happiness and joy into every moment. There was nothing magnificent about that plot of land whatsoever to a stranger, but we all knew better. The memories of time shared in that simple place will always be in the back of my mind, reminding me that beauty and adventure go hand and hand, and that sweetness isnt that hard to come by if you know the right places to look. As we drove away for the last time, I thought about all the times I had been disrespectful and even mean toward my grandma and realized she had never, in all her days, been anything but patience and understanding toward me. I became inspired from that day forward to always remember my grandmas advice and follow her example, to be sweet in even the most uncomfortable situations. I hadnt let go of my grandma that day when I left her house for the

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last time, but rather I finally let her into my heart fully and completely. Shes with me everywhere I go and I know shell always be there. Now Im providing the sanctuary for her that she used to provide for me every afternoon we came to see her. Though its not perfect and may even have some parts that some consider ugly or undesirable, I know that shell always understand and that Ill try my best to let the true beauty she taught me shine through the whole space.