Love Smells Like My Grandma Kate’s Home

Love

Smells Like My Grandma Kate’s Home BY LURA ROTI

When I heard the news that my 94-year-old grandma passed away in her sleep, among the love and sadness I felt, all I could think of was the scent of my Grandma Kate’s home. And all the warmth and love I felt each time I stepped inside.

Her home is more than a century old, nestled in the Madison Valley of Montana. Grand mountain views can be seen from the home’s original diamond-pane windows, but I never noticed them as a child, because inside was where my Grandma Kate was.

It’s the home my dad grew up in on his family’s cattle ranch. And for as long as I can remember, it was where our family vacations began. We’d barely pull into the drive and Grandma Kate would run out to greet all seven of us with hugs on her porch.

Grandma Kate was a tall, lean woman with dark curly hair and baby blue eyes.

Her hugs were strong and wonderful.

The moment we’d step inside the house, I would take in its scent. It was a bit breakfast bacon and sourdough pancakes, a bit sunshine on saddle leather, a bit … I don’t know exactly…but I loved it.

Each time I visited Grandma Kate, her home’s scent triggered many happy memories. Memories of adventures with cousins — memories of mornings chatting with grandma in her kitchen as she made her famous sourdough pancakes. She would pour batter into perfect circles. Once the white batter bubbled, she’d flip the cakes over. A few minutes later, she’d scoop all six up on her spatula, set them on a plate and pour out six more. The stack grew six sourdough cakes at a time. Once the plate was piled high with her breakfast special, and the scrambled eggs and bacon were ready, we’d all dive in.

My favorite topping was honey. It was from the ranch – a gift from the beekeeper who kept hives on my Grandpa Max’s hay fields.

After breakfast, some of us would do dishes. And there’d be more visiting. When I was with my Grandma Kate, I knew she genuinely cared about what mattered to us. We grandkids always knew Grandma Kate was on our side. Whatever was important to us, was important to her.

I remember as a fourth grader in the early 1990s, perms were all the rage. And I wanted a perm so bad. But my mom would not let me get one.

“It may turn your hair green,” she said.

I did not see any green hair about town. All I saw were perms. And I wanted a perm. A fact I must have shared with my grandma. Because she and I spent several hours in front of the bathroom mirror that visit trying to duplicate the look of a perm with a cousin’s crimping iron.

It didn’t turn out. But I remember somehow feeling OK about not getting a perm after that, because at least I knew my Grandma Kate thought I should be allowed to get a perm. This validation made everything OK.

As a middle schooler, I remember my Grandma Kate and I shared an interest in mystery novels. Agatha Christie being our favorite author. She gave me her paperback copy of Murder on the Orient Express.

As an adult, she and I shared an interest in history. Even up to our last visit a year ago, my grandma’s recall was amazing.

I have always been enthralled with Depression era history, and I would ask my grandma to share stories. She lived it. Although she was born and lived most of her life in Montana, Grandma Kate spent a few of her childhood years in Kansas, during the Dust

Bowl. A classmate of hers was buried alive in a dust storm. She never forgot this horror.

She shared lighthearted memories as well.

Among her favorite stories to tell is when my dad drew some pictures on the entryway wall and then decided to sign off, “Vern did this.” Vern being his younger brother who could not yet read or write.

Another story she shared was about the time she had three babies in diapers (one being my dad), and although she had a wringer washing machine, she and Grandpa did not have a dryer. So, she depended on a clothesline – even in winter. Then she came down with influenza and washing diapers became Grandpa’s job. When she recovered, she had a new dryer.

Grandma Kate was the keeper of family photos. So, in Grandma’s living room we spent many hours going through old photos together. My favorite is one of her as a teen, dressed up for a costume party in a bikini top and grass skirt. When I graduated from college, I asked my grandma for a copy of the photo as a graduation gift.

My dad is one of six children. I am one of 15 grandchildren. Until she was in her 90s, I received a phone call from my Grandma Kate every birthday. We all did.

Thanks to amazing care from her children, Grandma Kate was able to live out her days in the home she loved, cared for by the people she loved most. What a gift it was not only to her, but to us grandchildren. Now adults with children of our own, we were able to visit the ranch house and share our childhood memories and our Grandma Kate with our spouses and children.

The morning of her funeral, my Uncle Max made sourdough pancakes in Grandma’s kitchen for all of us to enjoy as we remembered our Grandma Kate together. As I stepped into the house, I inhaled deeply. The scent I remembered was gone.