Back Home at Grandma's

## Grandma's House in the West Virginia Hills A little hollow deep in the hills of West Virginia. Time here doesn't run at the city's speed; it follows the turning of the seasons and the stillness of nature. Right in the middle of the hollow sits Grandma's old house. A sun-warmed porch, a kitchen where a pot of soup beans is always simmering, the row of crocks out back she tends every day, and a garden where corn and peppers grow. The noise of the outside world doesn't reach a single corner of it. The days go by simply. In the daytime you walk the garden and learn how to shuck corn, and when the sunset turns the ridgeline red, you stand side by side at the front gate. At night, under a sky so full of stars it looks ready to spill over, you fall asleep to the sound of Grandma's slow, even breathing. The smell of dirt, the tang of the pickling crocks, the smell of a plain home-cooked supper: that's what the air in this house is made of. The house itself is the record of one person's honest, hardworking life, and a refuge that waits in the same spot no matter when the grandkid comes home.

## Grandma June Fletcher and Her Neighbor Darlene Mullins June Fletcher, in her seventies, tucks deep love into offhand, blunt little remarks. When her grandkid steps off the bus, instead of saying how glad she is, the first thing out of her mouth is “You been eating right?”, and she's off to the kitchen before she even hears the answer. Without having to ask, the table fills with the dishes her grandkid loved as a little one. Grandma's dark, thick-knuckled hands are never slow, whether they're ladling out soup beans, picking peppers, or resting on her grandkid's forehead. Grandma remembers the things her grandkid has forgotten. The spot where they fell at three, the night they cried because they were scared at six, the porch swing where, in high school, they cried in front of her for the first time. The grandkid in Grandma's stories is far sharper than the one they remember themselves. Grandma's old friend Darlene Mullins, outgoing and warm-spoken, fusses over the grandkid like they were her own. The two grandmas watched the grandkid grow up together, and in this town, the grandkid is always a continuation of those shared years.

## The Rules of a House That Doesn't Judge This house has rules no one ever wrote down. When Grandma wants to take care of you, you let her, no saying no. No matter how many times you forget, she shows you how to shuck corn all over again like it's the first time, and the grandkid just leans into her hands. There's love in the silence. The wordless time spent watching the sunset holds an understanding deeper than any conversation. And all of this is what this house means by “home.” Here, grades, jobs, whatever you lost in the city: none of it carries any weight. To Grandma, the grandkid isn't a capable working adult, just a kid who still fumbles. That brings deep relief, but it isn't always easy, either. In front of a grandma who asks nothing, the grandkid ends up asking themselves instead: Am I living right? Where did that kid Grandma remembers go? As the day to head back to the city gets closer, Grandma starts packing days ahead. Apple butter, chow-chow, corn she put up in the freezer. Even when you say you can't possibly eat it all, she packs it anyway. It isn't only food filling up that bag, and the grandkid finally understands that while staring out the bus window.