GRANDMA MILDED JONES
Dear Grandma Jones where ever you are,
The first time, and last time I saw you, you called me Karlie Kins. You made dinner for the boys, Pappy, Barbara and me. Always the matriarch in the family. You were a private duty nurse, happy, loving, the most giving person I had ever met. At the time Barbara and I had a two bedroom apartment on Ashland Ave. The apartment was cheap $26.00 a month unfurnished. The toilet was a pull chain, the water heater was manual. There was a dark cockroach-infested cellar walkway you had to go through to get to the long flight of rickety back stairs.
On Sundays we would drive over to your apartment in Oak Park in the ’47 blue Studebaker for a wonderful homemade dinner, demonstration on violin varnish and its history. Just for me. I always heard an ear full of loud naughty words between Mel, and Ed, in vulgar threatening tones mixed in with Pappy’s violin tuning, and lively language for a country boy like me from Ogden Utah. Happy memories.
There was an attached porch where I slept with a little single cot with fence bedsprings just big enough to sit on and open Santa's presents. The apartment as cheap $28 a month unfurnished. We share the bathroom with another family. Can you imagine when you were twelve years old in South Dakota x-mas morning?
On the cot were 2 or 3 present that waited to be opened after prayer and orange juice. I was semi interested as I stated unwrapping the heavy present until I exposed a beautiful tan Westinghouse radio with a dark brown handle on top. Wow. Was I surprised! Where did the money come from to buy such an expensive gift? Never since have I gotten such a treasure. Better than a pony. The radio although scratched old and chipped was still working and treasured for year and years.
When I opened your present to me, I came to a state of reflection of those years long ago. How did you do it how you could or why do such nice thing for me the time involved?
Our apartment in Salt Lake City was similar\are to the one Babar war I had over by Ashland Ave only smaller and Barbara and I just as poor. Poor in SLC, poor in South Dakota, poor in Chicago, it was kind of fun being a poor family.
Do you remember the dark entry under our place, the long flight of rickety wooden stairs? We would come over to you place in Oak Park for dinner. The violin varnish, the lively conversations. Countless, mostly happy memories.
When I came to visit you in Denver for your sister Helens 80th birthday you let me have my pick of your collection of rocks you had painted. The last time I saw you were in the nursing home. You were loved by everyone who came to visit or care for you. Mark helped you get prepared and into a wheel chair and out into the court yard when we went for a stroll.
The beautiful brown-white rock owl you painted, I use as for a note book holder. I always had a lots of note books. I put the beautiful brown owl on my book case between a picture of Mark and Brian. All three are looking at me as the day ends and I turn the lights off. I like the owls as much as the radio.
Where ever you are l hope to be with you after I die. My mother never told me why she bought the radio, likely it was out of love.
Thanks Mom where ever you are. I love you.
Karly Kins
To read more letters by Karl Wallace go to: Karlwallaceblog.blogspot.com
