Letter to Grandma Hiatt

Dear Grandma Hiatt-

I miss you. It's been probably 30 years since you died, but I remember you. Garrison Keillor says that nothing you do for a child is ever wasted...and he is right. I remember sitting on your back steps, next to your pretty garden with the red tulips and the red metal lawn chairs. We'd sit there on the back step and pretend we were at the carnival. We'd ride the ferris wheel-up, up, up. Then we'd go down the other side-wheeeee! We'd make up crazy roller coasters. We'd ride the merry-go-round.

When we got tired of that, we'd go inside. In your sun porch, just inside the house from the back steps, we'd sit at your brown leather-print card table, with the brown stripes at the corners, where the pattern came together. You'd sit there with me, and we'd look at stuff on your knickknack shelf; your whale tooth, and your big, coaster-size "Lucky Penny," pretty glass bottles, and other stuff I can't remember.


Sometimes you'd have jelly beans, and when you did we'd pretend the red ones were lipstick. We'd bite off the end, and rub the bigger piece on our lips. I remember you used to keep ice cream in what looked like those metal ice trays with the lever to release the ice. I remember your old-fashioned, white stove, probably from the 1930s, and you standing by it, cooking.
I remember when we used to play store on your kitchen table, using your wooden checkerboard as the conveyor belt, and we'd sit there and "check out" your boxes of salt, Potato Buds, cans of vegetables, etc.

I also remember playing "The Price is Right." I'd go in your bedroom, look through your jewelry box, and bring you "prizes," like necklaces and brooches and big clip earrings. We'd make bubble soap sometimes, in old Cool Whip bowls, and you'd let me use a straw and blow bubbles in the water. And one time, you let me help you paint your front porch. We painted it dark gray.

I remember you liked Russell Stover candy, and now, when I buy a box of candy, I always buy Russell Stover. They used to have little pink and yellow and light green candies, and they were so good! I don't know if they have those any more. They also had birds nests, made from coconut dyed green and covered with candy, with little jelly beans inside. I remember you bought me one. I was afraid to try it, but I did and it was good.

I remember when you used to take me for walks down by the trains. They stopped running them through Alden, did you know that? Yeah. Probably at least 20 years ago, if not more. I live where I can hear the trains now, and they don't bother me. I like them. I'm not sure if I could live somewhere with no trains, now. A train whistle is a comforting sound. I remember you let me look at the trains, and the lake, with your binoculars, but it was really fun when we would go down there and stand right next to the cars, close enough to touch one.

I remember going for rides in the car with Grandpa Hiatt, too. You had a green car, four doors, with rounded silver hubcaps (not real silver, I assume). I remember him sitting in his chair, listening to the game on the radio, and the big floor lamp that was next to him. He was always quiet.

Grandpa Hiatt was never the same after you died. I'm sure you know, he didn't live long afterward. I went to see him a couple of times, but it hurt too much to see him so sad, and see everything there, that I used to see every time I came to visit you, only without you there. I was too young to know why, then, but I remember it was bad.

My dad told me when you died. We were in Dearborn, at my aunt's house. I was in the basement, playing at my cousins, and dad came down and said he needed to talk to me. I thought my friend Missy had been run over by a car, or something, because he said, "one of your good friends died." But it wasn't her. It was you.

At the time, I remember saying, "it's okay dad." Because he was crying. He knew how much we liked each other. I overheard him talking to my mom and telling her that I had taken it very well, and them wondering if I was really okay. I was. I am. But I'm 40 now, grandma, and I still miss you. I remember asking you to be my grandma; we were sitting on the couch looking at the funny papers (as you called comics), and you were watching your soap opera. You used to read me the funnies, too; Henry, Nancy, Blondie, Charlie Brown, and BC are ones I remember well.

You used to be there for me. When my parents were fighting, you were there. I could walk to your house and visit you. I remember one time I was up in the woods hunting mushrooms, and I was excited because I had found eight white morels. I came running into my house to tell my parents, and they were too busy fighting to pay any attention. I left and went to your house, and you made me call them, but you were excited about my mushrooms. You told me everything would be all right, and it eventually was. They live near me now, and are very happy, and hardly fight at all.

I have two kids now, grandma. They're wonderful. And I wish I was as good a parent as you were a not-even-blood-related "grandma." I have so many questions about whether what I'm doing is right, and how to be better. When our daughter was born, I wanted to name her after you, but...and no offense...I didn't like your first name, and wanted to shorten it to Ina, but then when she was born she didn't look like an Ina.

I miss you. I'm sorry I was out of town when you died and didn't even get to come to your funeral. I'm sorry grandpa was so sad. I'm sorry I couldn't make him feel better. I hope he wasn't sad; it's just that I didn't have the same relationship with him that I did with you.

I went back home two years ago, and walked by your house with my husband and two kids. A couple was in the yard, probably your kids, and waved at us. I took a picture of it. Right after my first year at college I came home for the weekend, and walked in the alley behind your house. I could see where your garden had been. I could see your sun porch. Then I felt bad, like I was sneaking around someone's personal property (though no one said anything to me, and I don't think anyone was even there) and left quickly. There's a big, new house next to yours now, and it's closer to the street. Can you believe that Mrs. Coy's house (that big Victorian, red and white house just down the street) was sold for over a million dollars in the late '80's? In our little town.

I miss you. I know I keep saying that, but it is true. I'm not desperately wailing about you at all, and I don't cry about it often, but I think of you very often. Thank you so much for being there for me. Thanks for all the breaks you gave my parents. They've been married over 40 years now. Thank you for caring about me, for letting me come to your house nearly every day for eight years, and for all the time you spent with me, having fun. At least it was fun for me. I will never forget you. I love you.