Intro to My Narrative

Like my earlier post, this was an assignment from my literary journalism class I took this past summer. I was asked to write an introduction/beginning to what could be a chapter of a memoir or autobiography. The assignment was to write about a person or place that is special to me. I decided to write "grandma" my older aunt who's well into her 80s. I don't know why I and my other cousins call her grandma, maybe it's a sign of respect or adoration, or maybe it was just a nickname that stuck...in any event we all affectionately call her "Grandma." Below is just a brief introduction to her and her home...Enjoy!

GRANDMA'S HOUSE

Grandma’s Southside Chicago house is over 50 years old. It sits on the 65th block of Morgan Street in a row of neatly lined houses so close to each other if you put your arm out of the bathroom window you can almost touch the window of the house next door. It’s a three story house that has been home to many at some point—my aunt Beverly, my cousins Monique, Monica, and Montel, my mom, and for a short period of time, me. I used to be scared to go downstairs in the basement by myself. There was a huge life-size doll near the bottom of the steps with piercing eyes that always used to stare right at me—she’s gone now.

During most nights when all is calm you can hear the faint sounds of a police siren wailing as it zooms past the house. We always had to make sure to lock the double-bolted door, and only open the screen door for people we knew, after we looked through the peephole. These precautions may seem drastic to some, but it was—is what we’re used to. And although we took extra care before allowing someone into Grandma’s house, once you were in, you were in. Grandma’s house was the center for many family gatherings. I remember many of my aunts, cousins, and even a few neighborhood friends visiting Grandma’s house—sitting on the old, sturdy 1950s couch watching a Bears or Cubs game or when we would sit around the dining room table and play Trouble and then dominoes. Grandma or my mom would keep score, and I found out quickly that “the one with the pen…wins” as Grandma would say with a chuckle, especially when she was the one taking score.

I can still smell the scent of Grandma’s rice pudding and sweet potatoes. But you always had to be careful about eating the meat Grandma would cook. I’ve learned to steer clear of those dishes—One day she was in the kitchen cooking fish head stew, with the eyeballs still intact! Grandma doesn’t believe in letting things go to waste, so she’s known for cooking meat that most would consider road kill.