Sugar House, an outskirt refuge from the chaotic hustle and bustle of Salt Lake City, Utah, is where my grandparents have made their home since 1996. It is a fitting name to describe their combined force of compassion and sweetness. My grandmother, Grami, has always been wide-eyed and jittery with love. It wasn’t uncommon for her to shower a grandchild with questions and inquiries about their overall comfort level. Food? Hugs? Sleep? She could fix anything, even if there was no apparent issue. My grandfather, Papa, has always taken pride in being the comedic balancer in any given situation. When Grami offered a meal, Papa would offer a single cheerio. When asked how he was doing, he would respond with, “Well, I’m doing about 100 or at least 99”.
Their house is white with a rocky decoration that starts from the bottom and ends halfway up. A 50-foot North American native catalpa tree is planted centrally in their yard, the star of the show. Its branches are strong and thick enough to support the weight of multiple children racing to be the highest climber in the tree.
It is a ritual to climb this tree prior to entrance into their beloved home. A little wart that protrudes slightly out of the base of the trunk is the preferred first step to launching oneself into the heart of the tree. Often, one would feel extremely powerful as they maneuvered their body amongst the branches, but on one occasion, as a small child, I found myself lacking confidence while balancing on the branch closest to the ground. I had completed this circuit a dozen times before, but this time I was shot with hesitation and fear. The ground stretched from 10 feet away to nearly 20. No amount of comforting and coaching could lead me to safety.Within minutes for an adult and hours for a child, Papa came to the rescue with his 8-foot ladder and enveloped me into his large arms, carrying me out of the confines of the intimidating catalpa and back down to stable ground.
In addition to being a monkey gym, the catalpa tree would produce many treasures that occupied my siblings' and my attention for hours: large heart-shaped leaves, big enough to cover a child’s face, as well as skinny, long bean pods that were lime green and then scattered across the yard when they matured to a chestnut brown.The bean pods were an excellent multi-tool used for fantasies of being wizards with our wands or pirates with our swords. The leaves became the number one ingredient for our ‘nature burritos,’ filled with grass, weeds, and a light dusting of dirt for flavor, all rolled up to perfection. Or, they were used for the cushioned padding for our roly-poly hotel. We would collect the armadillo-like insects that favored my grandmother's garden bed and then rehouse them into our 5-star nature hotel, featuring all the latest amenities from her yard.
To enter their home of love, you start up a maroon staircase that has now been painted cream white and are welcomed by the stare of a ceramic turtle. In the front entryway, to the right, you will notice a metal deposit box with the inscription ‘mail,’ and upon entering, there is a metal cage that holds the mail until someone is able to retrieve it from inside.
In their cotton candy pink tiled bathroom, my cousins and I would scribble love notes onto construction paper and fill the mail slot with these notes so we could witness our grandmother say “goodness gracious grandmothers goosebumps,” shower us with wet kisses, and then proceed to hold us captive in a boa-constrictor-like grip.
The living room has an emerald green carpet and complementing brown, inviting couches, a corner of bookshelves, and no TV. We never needed one. At family gatherings, we would all huddle together in this room, and with squished together thighs, we would share the latest updates on our families. My grandparents would be smiling and nodding away, happy to have all their family together under one roof.
Moving into the dining room, my grandmother had a tribute to all her seven children; it consisted of recent family pictures, unwrapped gifts you had given her for Christmas the year before, and any other object that had a remote connection to who you were. The glass table beside it typically had newspaper clippings, mail, or an undone puzzle on it.
A gigantic window reveals a clear view of the Utahn snowy topped mountains and also showers a table full of my grandmother's plants with sunshine. My grandmother once took a fallen leaf from a grocery store, kept it wrapped in tissue paper for three days, and then revived the leaf back to life, which now sports many more leaves and a few branches too.
The kitchen was the most loved room. My grandmother was a master at hosting parties. The refrigerator would be stocked full with both expired and unexpired food, just to keep it interesting. There was always a full supply of M&M’s and Mountain Dew because this is what my Papa would live off of. All the food would be served in white glass containers with sage green flowers along the rim for design. We danced there. We laughed there. And we cried there.
The smell of their home was of lilacs and fresh linens. Their walls confined the sounds of Papa’s drawn-out chuckle and my grandmother’s humming. All reminders of a long legacy of creativity in love and comfort.
It’s been six months since my grandmother passed away.
Six months since I’ve heard her humming.
Six months since I’ve danced in her kitchen.
Six months since her wet kisses.
The catalpa tree remains, showcasing its trophies of bean pods, but there is no longer an intrigue to climb its branches. The stairs are still cream, but the welcoming turtle is gone. The mailbox is emptied. The kitchen is musicless. The living room’s carpet has turned to a repellent green, causing one not to linger for too long. Her plants have been dispersed.
My Papa still smiles like it’s his first time. He still cracks the same jokes when he has the strength. He has traded in his traditional outfit of khaki slacks with a button-up, for pullovers and sweatpants. His blood still runs on Mountain Dew. But he’s missing his loving counterpart. We all are. He may not recognize who you are, but he knows he loves you, just as she did.
“Bless you,” he says.
This house is now only a house. The rooms are only filled with things. I miss her. Sugar House has lost its sweetness.
