Over the River and Through the Woods

  • by Trish Berg
  • November 7, 2013
  • 415
                        
I had a dream the other night that I was back in my grandma Knoedler’s house, just as I am today, with my husband and four children. We were walking around the house, and found a secret door to a hidden basement, one that never really existed in real life. We went down there to discover oak furniture, household goods, pots and pans that we never knew she had. I am not a dream interpreter, and I know that many dreams are just dreams, not meant to be picked apart to find some secret meaning. But my grandma Knoedler has been gone since 1987, when I was only a senior in high school. But I think my dream has a lot to do with the Thanksgiving holiday and my heart missing my grandma. Grandma Knoedler was a woman full of life, energy and spunk. Every winter, she was the first one to throw on a winter coat and jump on a sled to slide down her back yard hill with us. Even when she was in her seventies, she walked with us to the nearby park to beat us at tennis. She would wrestle you to the floor if you got ornery, and was quick to put you in your place if you needed that sort of thing. My sister and my cousins always needed that. Not me, of course. But what I remember most about Grandma Knoedler was spending Thanksgiving at her house every year. We would make that hour long drive over the river and through the woods to her house full of food and family. The kids always had to eat in the basement rec room. She had a long table set up for all ten of us grandkids and a warm fire going in the fireplace down there. The grown ups got to eat upstairs at the dining room table in peace and quiet. But Grandma, she always came down to eat with the under fifteen crowd. I think she liked it that way. Enjoyed being with the chaotic kids rather than the quiet adults. And we loved having her there with us. Grandma Knoedler was not a gourmet cook. In fact, I don’t remember what she made on Thanksgiving. I assume we had turkey, mashed potatoes, yams and stuffing. A pie or two and probably bread and butter. But all of those details are simply a blur in my memories, a swirl of things that weren’t that important to me. But spending time with Grandma, now those are the memories that stick with me, the ones that bring tears to my eyes even as I type these words to you. I miss her. I miss the thought of her. I miss her smile and spunk, and even her wrestling me to the ground when I was too ornery. I think that’s why I had that dream the other night, why I was walking around in her house on the hill, discovering new treasures in her hidden basement. As I sit here and write, it occurs to me that the real treasure in her hidden basement has very little to do with oak furniture, pots and pans or household goods. The real treasure in her hidden basement is the love she showered over me and the memories I cherish of Thanksgivings with her in her very real basement in my very real life. I guess I am a dream interpreter after all. Happy Thanksgiving.


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