The Visit

- I wrote this not long after my greatgrandmother passed away. It is more sentiment than quality and is not finished. I just found it today and I think I might do some work on it.-


As I approach the driveway, I contemplate if I should park at the top of the steep lane or drive down. It snowed last night and Dad hasn’t been over yet to sand the driveway. I nuzzle my small grey hatchback into the drift at the top of the hill, that may or may not be a part of the ditch, and make the decision to get out on the passenger’s side. Even though the snow’s not as deep on the un-ploughed road, it still soaks its way into my canvas shoes. “Not quite the right attire.” I check for mail in the near frozen shut box and find a snowcapped “Estonian Post”. I tuck it under my arm and make my way carefully down to the house. From the top of the hill, narrow lifelines can be seen reaching out from the house, into the snow. One trail leads to the pile of wood kept dry in the garage and the other to the chicken shed. “Still so active,” I smile to myself. I know it keeps her going.
But something is missing; I’m a little put of edge. The dog should have already made my presence known. What’s wrong? Dark thoughts make there way into the back of my head.
I slip my way down a little closer to the house. “There it is”, I almost sign with relief. The door opens and the dog stands barking on the porch. The secret fears of finding her in distress, or perhaps even worse, are pushed off for another day. “She’s ninety-two years old and still as independent and stubborn as ever. The thing is though, nobody lasts forever.” I shove these thoughts out of my head and return to my denial. How could there ever be an end to what I was about to greet? She’s so strong: So full of perseverance. How could this endurance end?
“Olge vait Mouse!” I yell at the dog. He only understands Estonian instructions. The dog quiets down as I grab a shovel and start scraping off the ice on the stairs. With this simple gesture completed, I let the dog back into the house and follow in his footsteps.
“Terra, Terra Vanaema!” my traditional greeting sings out, as I knock my wet shoes in the doorway. They squish a little when I step my feet onto the worn out linoleum floor. It’s not really a place you’d want to take your shoes off in. Although my great grandmother takes great pride in her house and property, she also takes great pride in her independence. There is no way she’d allow me to pick up a broom and do a few laps around the house. Perhaps a few cleaned dishes would be okay but beyond that, the house was her territory and unfortunately, it often got the best of her.
With outside work it was different. When the spring came, she’d be outside with five different projects on the go and the whole family would be under her careful hawk-eye. She would point her cane at certain branches to be cut or where the next onion should be planted. Potato furrows to dig and brush to burn; outside the work never ended.
But now it was winter. The cold air made her joints ache and the lack of “real chores” seemed to get the best of her. Without things to keep her busy, you could tell that it’s this season most that she longs for companionship outside of her dog.
My vanaema’s worn, wrinkled face lights up as she looks in my direction. She squints her old blue eyes, that seems as young as mine, and tries to make out who I might be. “It’s Jennifer,” I confirm. “Zenny,” she chimes in her thick, rich accent. Her face look a little less puzzled. I cup her well worked hands with both of mine and smile. As a child, I would greet her less respectfully, with a large hug and a peck on the cheek, but with age, she taught me dignity and grace.
I show her the now soggy newspaper and place it on the table. “Toivo here?” she asks eagerly in her broken English. My father, her grandson, has always been the favorite. As a child, my father spent most of his time with her, and even still today, he is the one who buys her the things she needs and does any repairs or chores she can’t manage. With six daughters to her name and no sons, it’s easy to see why she would take such special interest in him. To be honest, the two need each other. Like my great grandmother, my father too needs to keep busy and without her, I’m not sure what he would do. She looks a little disappointed when I say he’s at home but seems happy enough to have my company.
“Sit,” she encourages. I smile and place my coat over the seat of a chair covered in dog hair. Although the house was in need of a good spring cleaning, the place always made me feel comfortable and at ease; it’s homey and familiar. The table is cluttered with dried bulbs and seeds, papers and medications are scattered about and there’s a package of opened cookies right beside the Kleenex. The sugar bowl is the centre piece of the collection with a silver spoon as an accent. Along the large window is a shelf of plants. I notice the Christmas cactus is in bloom along with some other greens that I don’t know the names of. All of them are bright and thriving and it’s evident that her green-thumb is still at work even in this the harshest season.
The old wood stove, with pipe jetting down from the ceiling, makes the room feel cozy and warm. My grandmother has already brought in enough wood for the day and it’s piled up neatly in a box, against the wall. Lying beside the box is an old goose wing, used to sweep up the bark and woodchips left on the floor. I contemplate a quick tidy while her back is turned but rethink the move. I’m a guest and I don’t want to hurt her pride. She places another piece of wood in the belly of the stove. “Coffee?” she inquires. I nod and regret not bringing her a cake or some sweets to go with our drinks.
Her thick legs and ankles shuffle her ungracefully into the kitchen to bring me a cup. With each step she takes, I can almost picture long, unshakable roots reaching into the floor. Her composure is strong. To be continued.....