“A small house,” Grandma used to say, “will hold as much happiness as a big one.” This is a small house, but I’m amazed at how much stuff Gran managed to shove into it.
After pulling stacks of dishes, dusty candles, and rows of empty Mason jars from several kitchen cupboards, I press my hands to my lower back and stretch, trying to remember how the cottage looked when Grandma Lillian lived here. Though someone has walked through and done a light decluttering, no one has changed the furniture or emptied the closets and cupboards. They are still crammed with the stuff of Gran’s life … which makes me wonder what people will think when they go through my personal belongings. They won’t find Mason jars in my kitchen, but they will find bone-shaped treats, Bag Balm, bottles of glucosamine, and flea shampoo.
Despite the familiar furnishings, the cottage in my memory is much cozier. When we stayed here, women’s magazines and mail-order catalogs stretched like ivy over every surface in the living room, including the floor. A sea-colored Lava lamp burned in the window until Penny knocked it off the ledge, and a “check your lipstick” mirror hung by the front door. Gran would sooner go naked than without lipstick, and in no time at all we learned to follow her example.
She may have been flirtatious, but Gran also had a knack for filling a room with light and laughter. Sunlight filled the summer days of my childhood, and when we sat on the porch swing and the cool night air threatened to send us indoors, Grandma’s embrace drove away the chill. She’d rock and sing, her voice harmonizing with a chorus of crickets and the steady rhythm of the clanking swing. She cared for every living thing that crossed her path, even the stray cats that wandered up from the village. Her favorite pet, though, was a blue parakeet, a bird she called Ricky. His cage stood over in the corner, between the two dining room windows. She used to purse her lips at the bars of his cage, saying, “Gimmie sugar!”
The bird would come over and peck her lips, repeating, “Gimme sugar, gimme sugar!”
I snap my fingers. “I thought of something I want,” I announce to anyone who’s listening. “Grandma’s bird blanket. It has to be tucked away somewhere.”
Ginger steps out of the hall closet, her face a map of confusion. “Her what?”
I know my request is silly and I don’t have any real plans for the blanket. I didn’t even remember it until a minute ago. But the old thing is a tangible link between Gran and me—it represents our love for animals, a trait she shared with me alone. I’m not exactly sure why I want it, but I know I won’t be satisfied unless I leave with that tattered blanket in my car.
“Don’t you remember?” Since Ginger’s drawing a blank, I look at Penny, who’s coming out of the hall bathroom. “Grandma made a blanket to cover the birdcage every night. It was edged in green, I think, and made of quilt squares. Every other square had the bird’s name embroidered on it.”
Penny’s bewildered expression softens to one of fond reminiscence. “Her bird—you mean Petey.”
“Ricky.” I nod with certainty. “That was one of the first words I learned to read because his name was all over that blanket. His name was Ricky, he was blue, and she had him for years.”
Ginger’s mouth twitches with amusement, and Penny’s smile ripens into a chuckle.
“Did I say something funny?”
Ginger throws her head back and explodes in laughter. I stare at both my sisters, perplexed, until Penny wipes tears of mirth from her eyes and Ginger gains control of herself. “I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but Grandmother didn’t have that bird for as long as you think. Her parakeets—well, she loved animals and she wasn’t cruel, but she was terribly forgetful. She lost three or four because she’d leave them out in a draft or forget to feed them—”
“But she had Ricky—”
“She gave them all the same name.” Penny gives me a rueful smile. “Reusing the name was a lot easier than making a new quilt for every bird. Maybe we should have called them Ricky One, Two, and Three, but they were different parakeets. We never told you when they died because we knew you’d get upset and cry.”
Ginger fans herself and sinks onto the loveseat. “We were always terrified that you’d notice. But you never did.”
I lower myself to the couch, my shoulders slumping. Penny sits by my side and drapes her arm around me. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Rosie. Honestly, I thought you’d figure it out eventually.”
I release a choked, desperate laugh. “I should have. But as a kid, I thought for sure that bird would live forever.”
“Some birds do live a long time,” Ginger says. “But those dime store parakeets weren’t very hardy.”
Penny releases me and pats her knees. “If we find that quilt, it’s yours. Want me to help you look for it?”
“Later.” Ginger stands and moves toward the door. “Right now it’s time for lunch. I spy an adolescent boy bearing pizza.”
While Ginger picks up her purse and steps outside, Penny goes into the kitchen and grabs three plates. My gaze falls on Justus, who is panting on his pillow and blinking, probably wondering what all the commotion is about.
Grandma’s bird blanket may be long gone, or it may be threadbare and stuck in a closet. But if it’s here, I want to fold it into a seat-sized square, and I want Jussy to rest on it when we head out for our final drive.
I’m not sure Gran would approve of my intentions, but I know she would understand how I love that dog.