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Locals in Dime Box knew they could always depend on her for a handout when times were tough, in return for their promise to plow her garden or fix her roof. In feed sack cup towels she would often wrap homemade rolls, sausage, cheese, or sometimes even a whole chicken meant for her own dinner, and send them home with whomever had come by to tell her their mother or wife was sick or had birthed a new baby. If she knew there were other children at home, something sweet, even if only a few pieces of penny candy, was always included. I drove past my grandmother’s house a few years ago. A crudely lettered For
Sale sign in the yard caused me to stop. The house, originally sold after Nana died, for sometime had been the victim of absentee owners and an endless string
of renters. The back door was still open, though not for the purpose of welcoming guests as in years past. The upper hinge was pulled loose and the screen door hung askew. The once beautiful front doors now contained only plain glass. No doubt the rose-etched glass had been broken by the wind, or perhaps an errant ball.
Many years had passed since the last time I was here. As I walked through the now empty rooms, it was difficult to believe the house I loved so much as a child had been so abused. There were holes in the floors, and faded wallpaper and paint was peeled off in huge patches. After closing the hanging screen door as best I could, I made my way carefully down the rotting back steps and prepared to leave. As I drove away, I looked back at the house and remembered the summers when Nana would stand at the back door and call me to lunch.
