My great grandfather lived on a rectangular plot of land across from the railroad tracks in downtown Norcross. His great grandchildren (my generation) called him Papa. His house had a front porch and a bench swing. I imagine my mother and father visited the house together, before I was born.
Walking through the doorway of his home was like walking through a veil of reverence. He greeted us with smiles, wisdom, and mustard seeds. There was a handmade, toy sized chapel by the front door. I would let my small fingers fill the sanctuary as I gazed with wonderment, with the lull of adult conversations in the background.
We were visiting for the Fourth of July. All of us... his daughters, grandchildren, and flock of great grandchildren. I am sure I was wearing ruffled socks and maybe even an outfit that matched my mother's. Probably some star spangled bows in my hair.
Inside I’m sure there was a beige, orange, and green table cloth covering the small dining room table. On the table must have sat a large bowl of ambrosia, a jug of grape juice, and a dish of potato salad.
I don't remember specifically, but I bet we heard a distant train horn, and one of his grandchildren (most likely my mom) promptly ran outside to place a penny on the tracks. The train would draw us outside and lumber by like an earthquake, more exciting than any fire work show.
In the eyes of a child, a stream of pure water ran the right side of his property, alongside shade, refreshing green fescue, and fire ant mounds. The great grandchildren anointed their knees with grass stains as they dodged ant hills. Some lawn chairs sat on the hill by the house.
After eating and playing, someone would remember the pennies. A willing adult collected them for us and we inspected them - How flat, distorted, and warm they were. The power of the train.
I don't really remember the fireworks, but I am sure they occurred. What is tucked in my memory is the grass, train tracks, and generations of family.
I do my best to connect our son (Papa's great-great-grandchild) with my grandmother (Papa's daughter). When we walk into Grandmother’s home and see her face, the same veil of sacredness occurs. Our son senses the precious moment; he speaks slower and moves more gently. He meanders around her house, inspecting each trinket and pondering its significance.
Today, I am sure my grandmother looks at her display of relics honoring the past and current American soldiers in her family, reflecting on a long life. Today, I am grateful for my family, memories, and life.