Mckinney Street

Mckinney Street.

My grandparents lived on Mckinney Street. 2924 Mckinney Street.

A small one level home built on a slab with an immaculately kept yard.  They didn't have a shower and you always had to turn off the kitchen lights when you ran the microwave or you'd blow a fuse. 

I haven't thought of it in years, and yet there I was in my dreams last night.  Picked up right out of my life today as a mother of five and thrown back in time twenty-five years with my children in tow.

In my dream, I was still the mother

The one:

            Who worried about her kids in the spotless home and sent them outside to play

            Who helped grandma make the beds with the corners tucked under just so

            Who helped add the crunchy stuff to the tuna sandwiches and still wondered why?

            Who sat my children on the bench trapped between the table and wall,

                        where I knew they'd have to sit until all their food was gone.

            Who bathed my babies in the peachy tub and worried they'd splash water on the                                   carpeted floor

            Who breathed in the blessed and comforting aroma of their home.

                        

A scent the house must have assumed after years and years of being cleaned with the same cleansers.  A fragrance one doesn't really notice or miss until you smell it again and suddenly your mind flies you back time and  to a place where you were immeasurably loved.

And then suddenly I woke,

And the tears ran hot and wet,

I wasn't ready for my visit to end. 

Because in my dream Grandma was still Grandma

Not the old lady with the wild, crazy hair that worries my children when they see her in the pictures I took of my last visit.  She was the young grandma with a secret stash of Avon lipstick samples to share, the grandma who'd wash my hair in the kitchen sink and then magically wrap it up in a towel, the grandma who taught me the properness of getting dressed up to go out shopping, and who'd always let me borrow her necklace during sacrament meeting.  

She taught me to love garage sells and how to iron and, of course, to play Scrabble.

And Grandpa…

With that winning smile where you could see the glint of metal in his teeth.  Oh, how he smiled after he gunned the boat and made me fly the first time I was brave enough to jump the wake.   He was the man who always made sure I had a bike to ride and patiently taught me how to mow the lawn in straight lines, a handy skill I have already passed onto his progeny.

His progeny.  My children.

They will never understand the significance of these precious memories. Because they will never have them... not like I do.  They will never know those precious people who lived on Mckinney Street, not like I did.  They will never know how Grandpa loved trains and how my Mom would take six, seven, and then eight kids alone on the train overnight to Boise just to visit them.  And how Grandpa seemed so tall and slender standing in the beautiful early morning summer sun, waiting for us to arrive on the platform of the train station.  How he'd rock on his feet and click his tongue.

They will never know.

And so this morning after I woke, and gave up on my desperate and unsuccessful attempt to escape back into my happy dream, I realized I must write it down, must write it all down or at the very least attempt.

Because I am the link,  

and they will never know unless I tell them.