One More Day There
Memories from Grandma’s House
Genealogy Matters Storyteller Tuesday Challenge: HAPPY HOME
Almost every Sunday, we visited Grandma and Grandpa Schatz’s house, built in the early 1920s on land owned by Grandma’s father, Peter Haag. The house included a small apartment in the back where Grandma’s mother lived until she died, and later, where Mom and Dad lived until their house was built next door.
The large yard, lined with fruit trees and flower beds with gazing balls atop concrete pedestals, featured a hammock and scattered garden chairs across its grassy stretch. I’d play while Grandma sat in the shade, shelling beans from Grandpa’s sprawling garden tucked behind the garage.
Our family of six lived next door until I was two. After we moved a few miles away, I often visited alone or with my sister. On solo visits, instead of sleeping in the upstairs dormer, my grandparents pushed their twin beds together so I could sleep in the middle. One night, I woke up on the floor—somehow the beds had separated during the night.
The dining room frequently doubled as a quilting bee, with a frame set up for Grandma and her church quilting circle. In the kitchen refrigerator, Nehi Grape, Orange Crush, and Red Cream Soda were always on hand. Grandpa’s drink glasses—adorned with women whose clothing vanished with cold beverages—were kept on the top shelf in the pantry, safely (if not entirely successfully) out of reach of curious grandchildren.
The house was also home to holiday celebrations and even a Schatz reunion, where I met many of Grandpa’s relatives.
But what I remember most is Grandma’s baking—her springerles and divinity—made on her porcelain-top table, part of a Hoosier-style kitchen workstation from around 1920. Attached to the tabletop was a cabinet with a flour bin and sifter. I don’t know what happened to the cabinet, but when I moved into my first unfurnished apartment in 1972, Mom gave me the table, along with Grandma’s gaudy orange Naugahyde couch. The couch is long gone, but that table followed me through countless moves—first a kitchen table, then a laundry table, and for the past 18 years, my dye studio table.
There are so many memories of that charming home. The visits ended when I was 12. Grandpa died, the house was sold, and Grandma moved in with us. Oh, how I’d love to have just one more day there with them.
Love that grandpa’s striptease glasses were kept out of sight. But apparently, not very well for it be part of your lovely memories.
There’s just something perfect about grandma house memories! Thanks so much for sharing these!