Grannie

The constancy of change; nomadic life is nothing but.

The discovery that coffee several rows inna day makes falling asleep an early-morning activity, changed my indulgence to every 4th or fifth day. 

I've been cooking more and when camped for a few days, leave the "setup" on my table: the bottom of the accordion case.

Suddenly, there was Grannie in her cotton-print sack dress in the one-room apartment she occupied in the attic of her son's house. The room was spacious, with two windows; one, a dormer, overlooked the estate's front sward.

It had all the amenities except air-conditioning and a bathtub. The water-closet was small: a komode and sink with a single, unshaded bulb with a pullchain above the mirror. But it was outside the main room and had a door. (Groping for the chain one night, I got my first experience of being plugged into 110 voltage.)

The kitchen, also small but complete, occupied the corner to the left of the entry. Her bed was catty-corner to the kitchen with a bedside table and lamp. A dining table with two chairs, including tablecloth, linen napkins, and a small bowl of lemondrops, held up the wall opposite her bed.

A few feet from the foot of her bed was the tv atop a low chest of drawers. Behind the tv was a cut-glass bowl with glow-in-the-dark stars and angels. Next to them was a bowl of candied orange slices.

It was cosy and though I never knew her to wear perfume, the room had a pleasant smell all her own. 

It was here, while staying when Mom flew somewhere to spend time with Dad, that my instruction in baking began. Though I've tried throughout my life to recreate her bacon-fat biscuits, I came to the conclusion it was her hand oil; I've never come close nor have I had the like in any restaurant.

Now wha'd I come over here for?