Right off route 88 there is the small town of Port Crane, New York. Or as I like to call it, Grandpa’s house. This is the house that Grandpa and Grandma built and raised their four kids in. This is also where us grandkids first met and began to make our own memories. His house is everything that my own house isn’t. He has a big yard with little bunnies in the back. He has a cute neighbor up the street with a Chevy truck and he has a garage full of his tools and cars.
I know I am going to miss sitting in the rumble seat of his 1934 Ford as he drove all over the county. As we drove along, all I ever saw was fields and the long, hilly roads that lead the way. I enjoyed the wind in my face and the hot sun beating down on me. He also took me out in the 1966 Plymouth quite often. He modified the car to be for drag racing and I remember how big my smile was when he revved the engine and took off down the road. I always knew we were going start heading back home when we stopped for ice cream at the local ice cream stand.
Grandpa’s house was where I learned to drive a truck, squeal my tires and let my hair down. There was just something about his house where I could let everything go and just have a good time. Whether that meant I was playing soccer in the yard with my cousins, sitting on the back deck chit-chatting with my aunt and uncle or sitting by the fire with that cute neighbor. I always managed to leave feeling like an all around happy girl.
Being at Grandpa’s house has taught me so much about life and who I am. I’m going to miss the early morning dew with the slight breeze coming in through the window. I’m going to miss the ugly painting of a barn in the middle of the kitchen. I’m going to miss watching Grandpa work on his cars out in the garage. But most importantly I’m going to miss making memories at Grandpa’s house.