I’m usually focused on fiction, long and short, but recently I wrote a little nonfiction piece, which I shall share with you today. I was reminiscing about the good ol’ days. You know the ones, when we were kids, carefree, excited about a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s. And all the goodness of those childhood trips lit up my senses … and here is what I wrote:

Rainbow Days

Everyone was sure there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but most kids had never seen it. For me, that treasure was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Mom would wake my brother and me before the sun, and we’d stumble to the car, clutching our pillows. We’d doze on the long drive, occasionally opening our eyes to see streetlights and car lights and starlight flash past in a blur.

As the sun came up and the stereo turned to static, we’d wake up in time for our traditional stop at Dairy Queen for a Blizzard, a stretch, and a restroom break. How I loved the out-of-town small-town feeling. I relished the idea of being far away from home, in another world and another time, where giant shopping centers were replaced by Piggly Wiggly, and six-lane highways were replaced by bumpy country roads. And as we finally reached that winding dirt road that led to the ramshackle house that was a castle in our eyes, our excitement grew, for we knew we were about to have the adventure of our lives.

There on the leaning porch were Grandma and Grandpa, and just past them, a world to explore. These things are etched into my memory: the stout wood-burning heater in the living room, the basket of Reader’s Digest magazines, the black vinyl couch that squeaked under sticky thighs in the summer heat, the owl figurine that was supposed to change color with the weather (but was always faded blue), the cuckoo clock with pinecone weights and maple leaf pendulum, Grandpa’s eight-track tape player, Grandma’s cookie tins full of sepia photographs, Grandpa’s jar of marbles, Grandma’s box of buttons. I could spend hours exploring this veritable wonderland of time-worn artifacts.

And we couldn’t wait to get outside. The small house sat on acres of land covered in piney woods and backing up to a lake, a paradise play place so different from the postage-stamp yard where we lived.

Grandpa used to take us fishing in the years before the lake dried up, and I was fascinated by the peaceful landscape of Mother Nature: the pine-needle blanket on the ground, the trees soaring up so high we couldn’t see their tops, the chatter of unfamiliar woodland creatures. We  inevitably got into something unpleasant – ant beds or chiggers or spider webs or thorns – but Grandma’s medicine cabinet was full of remedies (expired though they may have been).

Grandpa always surprised us with a treat or an adventure. During the metal detector craze of the 1980s, we would unearth Indian head pennies and other metal trinkets with Dad’s metal detector. We were super discoverers who had found the most precious riches in the world. It wasn’t until we were older that we learned Grandpa had planted the treasures. When did I discover the value was in the experience? I wonder.

After a day of exploration, we’d ride into town with Grandpa in a creaky old sedan that Dad called a boat to pick up some Kentucky Fried Chicken, and my brother and I would gobble down our dinner in anticipation of Grandpa’s homemade chocolate cake with ice cream. And Grandma and Grandpa would serve us the world’s biggest pieces of cake and heaping scoops of ice cream, and when we finished, they’d ask us if we wanted more. We’d go to bed stuffed so full we could hardly move.

Mornings at Grandma and Grandpa’s began before any other soul in the world was awake. From my pallet on the living room floor, I’d hear the shuffling of Grandpa’s feet in the kitchen, the flick and whoosh of the stove’s gas burners being lit, the whistling of the teakettle and the soft sizzling of bacon. I’d hear Grandpa’s deep, rattling voice with the Louisiana drawl and Grandma’s lilting, singsong hum as they talked about this and that. And then came the smells – bacon, coffee, Grandpa’s pipe – bringing me out of my dreams and into the kitchen.

Grandpa’s bacon was the best – just the right amount of crunch and the right amount of melt-in-your-mouth. We’d spread biscuits with preserves made from the figs growing out back, and we’d eat ’til our bellies were full and our hearts were too.

Soon after, we’d sulk to the car with our overnight bags stuffed full of treasures from the trip. When we’d head back out on the rocky road, my brother and I would face the rear window, and we’d wave and wave and wave until we couldn’t see Grandma and Grandpa anymore. And they’d wave and wave too, and I just knew they didn’t put their arms down until we were long gone.

I’d like to think they are still waving from where they are now and thinking of those Rainbow Days I will always treasure.