There was a constitution for Grandma’s house, but it wasn’t written. There were no explanations for the rules given more than once. Still, every single grandchild knew the rules after they walked through the doors.
We learned them the way you learn a language, by living and breathing them. One glance from her could enforce any rule on the books.
The funny thing is that I catch myself enforcing many of them in my own home now, word for word. We knew them all by heart. Here are twenty-seven of them.
The Screen Door Slammed Once, Never Twice
The first door you slammed of the day was forgiven, as summer legs are fast and doors are heavy. The second slam earned you the voice use of all of your names from three rooms away. By day three of every visit, all of us developed a gentle, practiced catch of the door. Anyone who had grandma training could be identified by the way they closed the door for the rest of their lives.
You Ate What Was Put in Front of You
There was no kids menu offered at her table, and there was no negotiating either. You ate what was given to you and the strange thing was that, of all places, food tasted better there. The vegetables that I used to fight against at home, went down without a fuss there. I still can’t place whether it was the bacon grease or the look she had, but her kitchen had a perfect record.
Home When the Streetlights Came On
The rule required no clock and no phone call. When the streetlights buzzed on, you had exactly as long as it took to run home from wherever you were. Nobody tested it twice, because supper waited for no one and neither did she. To this day, streetlights coming on at dusk make me feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere.
Church Clothes Came Off Before Play
You made a beeline for your room to change your clothes after church. Good clothes were an investment, and grass stains were a crime against the budget. As a kid, I always looked forward to the underrated pleasure of taking off church clothes. The soft, patched play clothes waiting on the bed made it even better.
No Running in the House
Outside she let you run until your lungs would give out. Inside the speed limit was a walk no exceptions during weather or wartime. The house was small, the figurines were many, and the rule kept the peace between them. Every grandchild learned to hit the door at a sprint and slow down to a stroll across the threshold.
You Washed Up Before You Even Looked at the Table
Hands were washed elbow-deep before heading to the dinner table and inspections were done like a surgeon’s nurse would. It didn’t matter that you had only been reading. The ritual was the ritual. We had our special towel and soap that smelled like her whole house. Clean hands were the price of admission to the best food in the county.
The Good Room Was for Company
The front room with the plastic on the couch and the lamps that never got switched on was not for us. It was the sort of room you could inspect like an exhibit. It only got used by someone important twice a year. The rest of the time the room was kept empty and perfect as an untouched monument. We respected it like a monument.
You Answered the First Time She Called
She shouted your name in a way that traveled the distance of two yards and through a closed window. There was no use pretending you didn’t hear because she knew the range of her own voice. A trot brought you to her and you said here I am before you knew what she wanted. Half the time it was to hand you a cookie, which kept your response time quick.
Supper Was at Five Thirty, Not Five Forty
The food was hot and the clock was law. There was a clear rule with a scheduled dinner time. If you were late, you got cold potatoes and the look. Without a formal setting, her schedule held the whole household together like a keel holds a boat. I’ve lived my whole adult life eating dinner at random times and I have never enjoyed it as much as I did under her scheduled dinner system.
Nobody Touched the Thermostat
She alone controlled the thermostat, using a science that remains a mystery to the rest of us. If you were cold, you’d find a sweater hanging on the hook as well an afghan on every chair. If you were hot, there was outdoor shade, and available tea. She would remind us that the utility bills were not growing magic maple trees out front.
The TV Went Off When Company Came
The moment a car pulled into the driveway, the television went dark, no matter what inning it was. Company meant faces toward each other and the good glasses filled. A house where the TV stayed on during visits, she said, might as well hang a sign that says go home. I think about that every time a screen glows through an entire gathering.
You Did Not Waste Food, Ever
Dishes were washed, leftovers got labeled and stored, and the last biscuit always got gobbled up. She knew the years of scarcity and this understanding shaped her kitchen. It was an absolute letdown to her if you took more than you could eat. I still eat the heel of the bread loaf out of respect for her.
Saturday Chores Came Before Saturday Cartoons
TV would come on after your bed was made and your chore was finished. It wasn’t a punishment, it was just the way things were. Work first then the reward of rest. Those hours of chore time taught me more than most of the time in school. I still have vivid memories of those sweet, rewarding cartoons.
You Never Opened the Fridge and Stood There
Standing in front of an open refrigerator is basically a crime against humanity. You are letting the cold out, she would say, before the door was even fully open. You made the decision and executing the mission was done with speed and precision. I hear her voice every single time my own fridge door lingers.
Long Distance Was for Emergencies
The phone was a tool, not a toy, and long distance was practically a utility bill with a dial tone. The whole house would quiet when there would be long distance calls. You said your piece quickly and got to the point. It made every faraway voice feel precious in a way no unlimited plan ever will.
Muddy Shoes Lived on the Porch
The line was absolute, mud stayed on the porch side of the door. A row of little shoes by the mat told you exactly how many grandkids were inside on any given day. Her floors were clean enough to eat off, and she meant to keep them that way. Socked feet on cool linoleum is still the feeling of summer to me.
You Took the Smallest Piece When Guests Were Over
When the pie came out and company was present, family reached last and took least. Company guests took the biggest slices, got the crispest pieces of chicken and the chairs without the wobble. It stung a little at the age of eight when the pie was chess. But family pie etiquette gave us a special kind of hospitality. No etiquette book could have described it.
Grown Folks’ Business Stayed Grown Folks’ Business
When you heard the grown-ups whisper, you knew it was time to find the exit. You didn’t ask questions to anyone after, nor repeated it at school. The kitchen has walls for a reason. Learning that some information was not mine to carry turned out to be excellent training for adulthood.
The Bible and the Bills Were Not Toys
In that house, two stacks of paper were absolutely taboo. One was on her nightstand, the other was on her desk. Both of these stacks were equally essential in keeping order at the house, and both were dealt with never by anyone but her. Any of the other things at the house were fair game to be touched; pots, tools and even things from the garden. But those paper stacks were the ark of the covenant, and we were careful to give them a wide berth.
You Rode Along Without Complaints
If she was going to the store, bank, and fabric shop, we were all going too and nobody cared how long it would take. A ride along was non-negotiable, and for some reason we never actually wanted it to be. There were penny candies at the register and stories told while waiting in the car. I cherished every long drawn out errand because of the chance to have stories told and I suspect you will too.
Nobody Slept Past Eight, Even in Summer
Sleeping in was for sick people and city folks. It was hard to sleep in past the smell of breakfast that beckoned you to join the rest of the world, and that was her entire strategy. I used to fight that rule for years, but now I wake at dawn voluntarily, which would have delighted her.
The Garden Got Watered Before It Got Hot
Garden work had to be done first thing in the morning. The team was whoever was up early enough. She said watering midday steamed the plants like steaming vegetables in a pot. You carried the can, she pointed at the rows, and it was done before the dew burned off. The reward was breakfast on the porch with still the dirt under your fingernails.
Thank You Notes Came Before Playing With the Gift
The thank you note was the last step to the gift ownership process. She sat you at the kitchen table with paper while the toy waited in its box. Those four sentences of pure agony taught a lifetime of gratitude. There are people out there who saved those notes, vindicating her entirely.
A Bad Word Anywhere Got Back to Her Somehow
She had contacts in the church, school, and store and had sources on all the porches in between. If you cursed into the dirt, she would know by supper. We never knew how she found things out, and we never tried to. We talked as if we were little diplomats across the whole county because that was what it was all about.
The Phone Got Answered Politely or Not at All
You answered her telephone with a full sentence, hello, this is her house, who may I say is calling? Grunting hello like a teenager was grounds for losing phone privileges you didn’t even know existed. She said the voice that answers speaks for the whole family. I still answer unknown calls a little more politely than they deserve.
Lights Went Off When You Left a Room
Every empty room with a burning light was money floating out the window, and she could hear a light switch from anywhere in the house. You are not lighting the room for the furniture, she would say. The rule was annoying at nine and automatic by twelve. I flip switches behind my own family like I’m being tested.
Hugs Were Not Optional at Goodbye
There was no waving you goodbye from the door. Every single departure was filled with hugs. We wouldn’t leave her house until she hugged us, and that hug included a strong embrace with something always placed in our hands before she sent us on our way. Think about it. She hugged you as if the drive home was a sea voyage. Now that I can’t have one more of them, I understand the rule was never for us kids at all.
