Nashville || May 2017
Bet you didn't think I could get a concussion from an immobile object, didja? Well, apparently, neither did I.
This past weekend, we left after my work and drove to Nashville where my grandmother lives to surprise her for Mother's Day. After reaching the house we were staying at, I wanted to share with you my home away from home because it is one of the few places that I would call my home. I'm close with both sets of grandparents, but these two grents were the farthest of the two, resulting in me not spending too much time with them.
I remember once spending a weekend up with them and having my grandmother ask me what I wanted for dinner. Because I still order chicken tenders and fries even to this day at ANY restaurant, (go ahead, ask my co-workers what I ordered on the way back from New York in the airport from a German restaurant that served all sorts of meats, sausages, and all sorts of bread and Germanic food. You guessed it. Straight from the kiddie's menu. Those fries were dang good, lemme tell ya.)
I ended up telling my grandmother I wanted chicken tenders. She drove to the store and I remembered following her around Fresh Market, just waiting for her to pick up the bag of frozen chicken tenders from the frozen section, probably some organic something or another because Fresh Market doesn't carry comfort food (something lame about 'health' and how fried food isn't great for you or fresh? Like whatttt? Jk. But seriously) and then she totally turned me around and grabbed some breading ingredients and chicken breast.
When we got back, not only did she bread the dang chicken, but she cut it into strips like forreal chicken strips. I mean, I always knew that my grandmother was a badbutt old fashioned lady ready to smack down some Jane Austen styled accomplished lady stuff but good grief. Handmade chicken tenders.
They were delish, by the way.
That was the kind of woman she was and that was the kind of house she and Papa had made. It was this beautiful log cabin type of house with the proper sitting rooms, study for the men, grand foyer with a chandelier, grand piano, and pretty little garden. Probably my favorite room in the whole house is my Papa's study. It's a large, dark room that leads out to a side back porch that we only ever ventured out on in the past year. It's been largely forgotten, the doors leading out rather stubborn in their locks. He has everything a traditional mancave study would have, and I fell in love with this black iron typewriter that I came to find out that he used quite frequently.
He stashed away a booklet of typewritten poems in a book; the likes of which that I photographed to read whenever I wanted because if there was anything more surprising to me than seeing his actual study in close up detail after so many years, it was that my grandfather was a writer. Like me. I don't remember ever really writing much about it on this blog, but I love to write fiction stories and have been doing so for years. I relate it to my eldest brother who was a writer and it inspired me to write as well.
After all of these years, after my Papa had passed away last spring, I found his poetry book and the old fashioned type writer that he had worked so tirelessly on. It now resides on my desk; a beautiful reminder of family heritage and history and also that I could use it to make something as beautiful as he made with that short little book. One of my favorite spots in their house is the end of the foyer, where the grand piano stands. I used to take lessons once upon a time but had quit when I grew tired of the practice and commitment. I remembered playing the same three songs for everyone every time I got to a piano. They were the only ones that I knew by heart. That was until the piano got so horribly out of tune that it sounded as if I was stepping on their household cat who lived right out in the garden. Still as horribly out of tune as before but still as beautiful as the grand piece as you walk in.
All that being said; my brother and I went on an exploring trip of the attic at the house just to curb our curiosity of the room we'd never seen. My brother is a constant source of entertainment; keeping us in stitches most of the ride up to Nashville. That all being said, I'm a tall girl. And concussions haven't ever marred my path as long as I've played competitive basketball since I was ten. Granted, I didn't actually receive a concussion. As far as I remember that is :P kidding. I remember what happened. I was trying to duck through the low hanging doorway as we exited the attic and managed to smash the top of my head directly into the doorframe. I remembered laughing so hard I nearly fell over; it wasn't that it didn't hurt extremely badly, but that I was in such a stupid mood to begin with and I could just imagine my brother saying something witty to how idiotic I had been not to have ducked more through a doorway. An immobile object. Instead of a bump on my head, I think I made a dent in it.
I explored outside the next morning, the sun feeling good against my face since I hadn't been out in some time. Work keeps me limited on when I see the outdoors. I walked down the driveway that used to be just gravel and would crunch underneath your feet but I stopped when I heard a light padding noise. When I turned around this little guy had followed me all the way up from the barn and just stared at me when I paused! He's a cute lil guy; Big Brother nicknamed him Partn'r.
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This past weekend was peaceful, the absence of phone service making it a little less stressful to keep up with everyone's news. All in all, I think the more I grow older, the more I appreciate quiet and a certain kind of solitude after the busyness of work.