Rolling in the procession to my grandfather’s final resting place yesterday, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia. Because as my 7-year-old self would tell you, once you pass the Dairy Queen and the old Italian Delight building, round the bend and bear down on the bridge over the Kline Kill, you’re home. The big house on the other side — that’s Grammy and Grampy’s house.
I am now 40, but it will always be Grammy and Grampy’s house. But it is not the same world.
The processional slowed past the home, now restored by his son and family to its Victorian glory. I showed some of his other grandchildren and his great-grandchildren where his garden used to be.
Past the site of his organized chaos of a farm machinery shop where he worked so hard for 30 years — destroyed in a fire 20 years ago and now the home of his son’s and grandson’s auto business.