There was a time when my Mom, Sister and I lived with Nonnie and Papa. Nonnie and Papa are my Mom's parents, and we lived with them as my Mom went through the divorce. Just now I'm realizing that my Mom was probably in her late twenties or early thirties during this time. Dit and I were between four and six years old. I have no idea how long we lived there, but it seems like quite a while looking back.

I loved that house. First, because it was a house, not an apartment. It was also safe and steady for the most part. I know Mom and Dad fought, but I only vaguely remember a snippet of one of the fights. Nonnie and Papa's house was the way things should be in my child's mind.

If you kept walking straight when you entered the house, you would go down a flight of stairs that curved a little to the basement. It was an English basement, and you could see out the windows into the backyard if you were tall enough. They had an extra bathroom down there, the laundry room, and a bigger room that Nonnie used to teach art classes in. They were both painters. Papa painted walls and houses, Nonnie painted pictures. She once sent a picture of Little John to the White House after President Kennedy was shot. You know the pose, the one where he's saluting his father's casket. But I digress…

I remember gray and red speckled tile on the floor down those stairs and in the basement, and all the colors of paint that Nonnie taught us to recognize. Raw Umber and Burnt Sienna always remind me of Nonnie and those classes.

A little jog to the right once you were in the house and there was the kitchen with so many avocado cabinets. The oven and stove were in the corner of the room. That kitchen will remain in my memory for a long time. Papa is a "meat and potatoes" man, and while he relaxed with his after work glass of wine and the evening news, Nonnie made dinner for him, and us. I vividly remember the smell of the sauerkraut and sausage dinners. There was always fruit in the little bowls and bread and butter or "hard tack." In the summers when we were out of school, Nonnie made Dit and I each hot dogs for lunch, a quartered apple, a bag of potato chips and chocolate milk. For dessert, we would have cookies. Three if they're small, two if they're big. Every Sunday morning, that house would come alive with the rest of the family. "Panny-cakes" were served with "porkies" (sausage links) and bacon on the side. There would be strawberries or peaches and always syrup toppings. Everyone would stuff themselves and tell her again how wonderful breakfast was.

My favorite times, however, were the rainy mornings before school. We'd get up, get ready for school, and come down the stairs for breakfast. The lights were usually off in the living and dining rooms, but they were on in the kitchen and it looked completely dark outside. You could hear the rain tapping the windows before you actually saw it. Papa had already eaten his breakfast and left for work. The wonderful smell of breakfast and coffee lingered. The newspaper showed that he had already been through it. Nonnie made sure we ate well and were ready for our day. She would write us notes on our brown lunch bags, sometimes so would Papa. Some days when Nonnie didn't walk me to school, (which was just down a block), she would wave from the kitchen window as I passed. I can still see her sitting there.

I am just realizing all the things I've forgotten about those days. The feelings stick with me, though. A lot of mornings in that house started off with such a warm, secure, happy feeling. On rainy mornings though, the light inside was reflected back, instead of combining with the sunshine outside. I guess I just felt it more then.

I carry that feeling around in a pocket in my heart. I save it for rainy days. Then I take it out and remember.

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