Every morning after a restless night, listening for the trains on the East side of the property, I would awake to the smell of bacon coming from the Grandma Dot's kitchen. Running downstairs, grandmother was in the kitchen, powdered, groomed, wearing a simple dress and nylons, finishing the final touches on breakfast and standing next to a table set with dishes, mats and glasses embossed with "The Great State of Virginia." Those glasses seem to announce what I felt about being in the home. It was great.
We said grace before every meal. Sometime into the breakfast, Anna would knock on the door bringing with her a voice that had a high hollow bell tone in a deep southern dialect difficult to understand. Her voice sang and fluctuated with a cadence and lyrical value beautiful and alluring. She welcomed the day; she welcomed me back into her life. We continued our bacon, eggs, toast and butter breakfast to conversations of what was happening that day and the gentle rhythm of human interaction bound to a place that calls to us, bringing back memories both pleasant and sad. It was like Christmas but the presents were the presence of those around the table. These adults surrounding us were infatuated with our childish aura. They filled our cup with attention and adoration. We were a novelty and something about the way we grew was very important to them.
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