What's this doing in my house IV?
Fourth in the Lee inspired Monday blogging phenomenon known by the catchy title 'What's this doing in my house?'
I believe the actual title is 'WTF is this doing in my house,' but Lee was nice and cleaned it up for those like me, more sensitive and shocked by such language...
What you see is somewhat self-explanatory. It's a stagecoach. Ah, but there's some history behind this stage coach.
In December, 1968, my grandfather passed away, the first loss of my four grandparents. Death was a new thing in my life, Gramps being my first dealing with this inevitable aspect of life. In the aftermath of his death, my mom's sis hassled her over everything, basically wanted everything. My mom asked me what I'd like to have, and the 14 year old me wished for but one thing: the stage coach.
That stage coach represents all I have beyond memories of my mom's dad. He was a gentle man, a rather quiet man. I divebombed him once from the second floor of this home, where, then without railing in the hall, I leaped as he passed below. That earned me stictches above my eye. A few weeks ago, the electrologist doing my brows said "did you know you have a hole there? A hole meaning absent of hair. Yup, that would be the lasting consequence of when I kamakazied grampy.
Every Saturday in late afternoon, my dad would trod off and pick up my grandmother and grandfather. We'd stop at a German Jewish bakery, which simply had the best baked goods east of the Mississippi and west of the Nile, pick up four loaves of freshly baked, steaming hot, right out of their brick oven, rye bread, a box of maple frosted square, unholedm doughnuts (that weighed about a pound apiece) and head for our home. Dinner was simple, Saturday nights would find my sis threatening not to eat, for she would barf if having to consume hot dogs, so for her, she was presented with burger to go with her Boston baked beans. We were such a creative family! Yanno, I still do love Boston baked beans...
anyway, part of that meal.. the part everyone most enjoyed, was that rye bread. Goddess, that was tasty. Melted butter quickly disappearing into a slice's nooks and crannies, I've never tasted anything comparable since. The bakery closed when I was in high school, it was but a hole in the wall of a building to be demolished, but also know the family was offered a bundle by other bakers for their recipe - they never sold. Pity.
And that brings us around again to the stage coach. Yassee, not only was that stage coach my grandfather's, all that I have tangible to trigger memories of him, but...
he carved it. By hand.