Summers in St. Mary’s County
By: Heather Cook

When I visit my grandmother’s house now, I am reminded of the little girl who used to dance in the living room with her best friend to the sugary sounds of her New Kids on the Block video tape. These days my grandmother’s cramped living room is stuffed with blue and tan-colored reclining chairs, two bookcases filled with photographs and video cassettes, and a twin sized bed where she sleeps because she can no longer make it up the stairs to her room. The house itself, perched atop a hill set not too far off from the highway, is a small two story with three bedrooms and one bathroom, nestled deep in Small-town, USA, otherwise known as Clements, Maryland. Outside, the white paint is flaking and the blue shingles are crooked. Inside, the carpet in all the rooms is faded and stained, and the banister leading up the stairs is no longer sturdy. I lived there for two years as a child, with my father and grandmother, while my parents sorted out their custody dispute.

Kim was my best friend, more out of convenience than anything else. Short and chubby, with long mousy brown hair and a big smile, she lived in an old trailer on the other side of the dirt driveway; our front doors were maybe fifty feet apart. Her mother was incredibly overprotective and never let her leave her own yard, so the days she was allowed to come over were always spent scurrying in and out of the house, building sandcastles in the sandbox out back, riding our bikes down the hill in the front yard, or gliding through the air on her swing set next door. We made up games to play, sometimes pretending we lived in the wilderness, which was just my backyard, and had to rely on grass and roots and leaves and mud pies to stay alive. Other times we would play “house” on my grandmother’s screened front porch, the blue paint on the floorboards cracking and peeling, making believe that we were grownups of fifteen or sixteen whose parents were always dead or on some extravagant voyage so that we were forced to live on our own. The games we played always involved just the two of us trying to survive together against terrible odds.

On Sundays, my aunts and uncles and cousins would visit. My father had eight brothers and sisters, and every weekend at least five of them would show up, husbands, wives, and children in tow. My aunt Ann, the youngest girl in the family and probably the most overworked, would be busy helping my grandmother prepare dinner while my uncles sat in the living room watching whatever seasonal sports game happened to be on television. If the weather was warm, the adults would join the kids outside, sitting lazily in the plastic chairs and picnic tables scattered about my grandmother’s lawn, while my uncle Ray, the youngest boy in the family, would grill hot dogs and hamburgers. I was the oldest of the cousins who still came over, and so I felt I was in charge of Ashley, Amber, Corey, and Ryan. I would pick the games and make sure that no one ran out into the road or hurt themselves. If they had been any older, they probably would have rebelled against my dictatorial rule. We spent most of our time at the bottom of the hill in the enormous front yard, playing kickball or softball or tag. This was the routine every week, so that one Sunday became interchangeable with the next.

When remembering the time I spent living with my dad at my grandmother’s house, I can’t pick out any specific days; they all blend together and collapse in on one another like dominoes. I rarely visit now. The sandbox out back is gone, and Kim moved across town years ago. But my uncles, with weaker joints and grayer hair, still crowd the living room watching sports. My aunt Ann, a little more frazzled and overworked, still cooks the afternoon meal. The kids are all too old to want to play kickball or softball or tag in the front yard; instead the lounge in the bedroom upstairs watching TV and yawning. They still gather at my grandmother’s house on Sundays to talk about the same topics, eat the same meals, and watch the same sports. There are new cousins who do play outside, Kevin, Hannah, Jessica, so the sounds of shouting and laughter and the occasional accusatory yell can still be heard wafting in through the windows. Visiting that old house is less like visiting a place, and more like visiting a frozen moment in time.

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