Throughout my childhood, one of single parents and a new school every year, my grandparents and their warm, lively home were my rock. My only real home. My mom, brother and I lived in many houses across two counties in Southern California, including a short stint at my grandparents home when I was around 11 or 12. But their home was my real home, the place I always felt drawn to, where I could bask in the glow of busy, loud family sounds and sure feet on hardwood floors. It was home base where family was always present, a yummy meal was shortly coming, and a splashy pool and tart lemonade awaited two very rambunctious and loud kids (my brother and me).
On the occasional weekends when my grandparents had us overnight, I recall breakfasts of soft-boiled eggs with lots of salt, pancakes with bacon inside, and yummy, sugary cereals we didn't get to eat at our house. Afternoons of pool play and washing cars in the driveway or dodging spiders and the boogeyman down on the backyard's lower level. Evenings of movie-watching and spaghetti with meat sauce and ice cream sundaes in special bowls. At bedtime, it was grandma who said the Lord's Prayer with us, and then dragged us to church on Sunday morning.
There were things I loved about my grandparent's house when I was a kid. The closet in the hall which held grandpa's old shirts and some other old stuff. This closet had a smell that I've only ever smelled at their house, one of dust and cedar and decaying cotton. I love that smell. In the kitchen and breakfast room there is a short cabinet that housed the smattering of toys they kept for us. There was one of those little square number puzzles where you had one blank space and you had to move all the numbers around to get them all in numeric order. I sucked at that thing. At one point, much later, the Rubik's Cube was one of my favorites. But I sucked at that one, too. There was one of those view finder toys with the circular cards with tiny slides in it. And there was a little white doll that may have been a sheep or a bear but which had lost all its fur and most of its other defining characteristics to the love of the previous generation. I loved that cabinet and loved finding the occasional treasure. I loved the piano nook with the piano bench with the secret hiding place and the metronome. I loved "playing" the piano but I'm certain the racket sent my grandfather through the roof and everyone else outside.
My aunt Nancy, who is just five years older than me, had a very cool bedroom with its own bathroom. Her room had this huge built-in closet with deep shelves and drawers and cabinets way up high which I could never reach and which I'm sure held the most interesting things. I loved the grass skirts and coconut bra, and all the board games in that closet. I also loved her collection of Peanuts comic books and Agatha Christie mysteries. I followed Nancy around like a puppy most of the time, wishing her to be my big sister. I wanted to try on all her clothes (which I was too big for - I tried) and hang out with her and her friends and do calligraphy. The one year we went to the same school, we rode together in a brown Toyota wagon and listened to 8-tracks. We would drive to pick up one of her friends and I would ride in the backseat along Sunset Blvd. toward school. That year was heaven.
My uncles had shared an awesome bedroom with two built-in beds with big, heavy drawers underneath. One bed was higher than the other one. After they moved away and on nights when my brother and I stayed there, we slept in that room. Billy always got the higher bed, which was really okay with me. The shorter bed had bookshelves and a fun box with Red Buttons' picture on it. Somehow I remember that some jelly beans or some such candy got stashed away in that box and it was my own little private candy treasure. I'll always associate Red Buttons with that candy. I loved peeping through the drawers in my uncles' old room. I found someone's old stamp collection and a bunch of other things, including a recording my dad made for my mother shortly after they split up. It was heartbreaking. I don't think I did much peeking in those drawers after that.
Anyway, to this day and throughout my 38 years, my grandparents home is home. I have a home with my husband and children and I know this is where I belong. But much the same way that Trinidad will always be home for my hubby, my grandparent's home is mine. My sanctuary, my rock, my foundation. I love seeing my grandparents holding hands and saying sweet things to each other, all settled into this phase of their long lives together.
My grandfather is Charles Champlin and his wife, Peggy, is my lovely grandmother. My mother is their second of six children, and I am the oldest of their 13 grandchildren. I have three of their five great-grands. They live in Bel Air, California and have lived in their home together for over forty years. Next year they will celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. Sure, their home has been my foundation, my home base, but their marriage has been the one true example of true love and forgiveness and care, support, respect and generosity in a marriage. Given their Hollywood life and pricey zip code, their lifestyle has rarely been more than modest and humble. The one fancy car they ever owned remained my grandfather's toy for almost 30 years. One time, my grandma made sandwiches for Clint Eastwood as he sat and talked with my grandpa on the back porch, and probably with a side of Fritos and a beer. Neither has had any plastic surgery or graced a gossip's column. My grandparents are humble, regular folk who happen to have met a lot of famous people. I love this about them. And I don't think a star on Hollywood Blvd. is going to change that much. The star and ceremony will take place in August. (Guess who's going to be there with her camera for THAT?)
I'm waxing nostalgic (and long-windedly so, thank you for your patience) for a few reasons. My mom and Nadia and I went up for a visit yesterday and had a lovely time. We even watched some old home movies with grandpa doing some schtick for the wobbly Super 8. I'm also having a birthday this week, and while I don't think I'm depressed about getting older, I do become more acutely aware of how life is progressing and that as I age so do my loved ones. And so, rather than miss another opportunity to tell a loved one what they've meant to me before my chance has passed, I want to take the time now to tell my grandparents just how wonderful they are, how blessed I am to have them in my life, and how much I value their love, patience, kindness and generosity. And the good genes. Thank you for those, too.
How cute are they?
