by: Haley Rigsby
(The author of this Thanksgiving essay is the granddaughter of Lois Bridges of Crothersville.)
The creaky brown carpeted floor, the paneled walls, knick-knacks everywhere that have special meanings, the morning sunrise and crisp cool air. There could only be one place so marvelous; my grandma’s house. As I was lying on the floor playing “Sorry!” with my mom and grandma in the evening, you could hear the sounds of Family Feud blaring in the background. I’ve grown up there all my life. Weather it be for the many visits we’ve taken or the time when we lived there for a while, that tiny house in Crothersville, Indiana will always have a special place in my heart.
Simply waking up in the morning would be a blessing. The bright rising sun would fill the whole house with morning sunshine as welcoming as a cold glass of water on a hot summer day.
I’d help make the eggs with my mom and grandma would cook the bacon. The unmistakable smell of the bacon would fill the whole house. As we would sit at the table eating breakfast and drinking fresh orange juice, the little town was so quiet, you could hear the cars on the distant highway. Mornings is one of my favorite memories of my grandma’s house.
The best part of grandma’s house would have to be the cookies. There would always be a least two different types of cookies waiting for me when I got there. If there weren’t any cookies waiting for me, I had the honor of helping my grandma make them. When they would come fresh out of the oven, it seemed like the whole town flocked to my grandma’s house. The gooey-ness of the melted chocolate and the softness of the cookie was heaven. We’d always be sent home with a tin full and a smile. You could try to copy my grandma’s cookies or own the best cookie shop in the world and it wouldn’t compare to my grandma’s cookies.
I still visit my grandma’s house as often as I can. I still come home with a tin of cookies and a smile. There’s still a beautiful sunrise and clean crisp air. Sometimes I can still convince my mom and grandma to play “Sorry!” with me on the floor while Family Feud is blaring. The day that they put in factories to ruin the fresh air, or a major business that blocks that sun, or the day that that old tiny house in Crothersville is torn down is the day that a little piece inside of me dies.
