Moonlight and Memory; Returning to my Grandmothers house

 Savoring simple daily pleasures 

As I lay awake in the early hours, listening to the steady hum of a purr beside me and watching the moon drift slowly across the sky, I found myself transported — not just in thought, but in feeling. One moment I was wrapped in the soft weight of my duvet; the next, I was nine or ten years old again, standing at the little iron gate of my grandmother’s home in Northamptonshire.

It was such a vivid transportation that I could almost smell the faint sweetness of her front garden — the mingling scents of lavender and freshly watered geraniums. The gravel crunched under my shoes as I made my way up the short shale path, leading from the gate to the front door. The house stood proudly at the end of a 1920s terrace, a modest corner property with stories soaked into its pebble dashed bricks.

To the right lived an elderly lady with a cloud of white curls and a Stannah Stair Lift that I’d found endlessly fascinating as a child. To the left, beyond a narrow passageway, was the little corner shop — its bell forever tinkling with the comings and goings of customers, its windows cluttered with handwritten signs and sweet jars that glimmered like jewels in the sunlight.

The front door was new then — a white, double-glazed plastic affair that my grandmother was immensely proud of. “All the rage,” she’d told me, beaming as she turned the key with a satisfying click. I step through now in my memory, and there it all is, exactly as it was.

To my left, the telephone table — a marvel of multi-function design: a little seat, a shelf for the phone, a place for the notepad and pencil, and a nook for the hefty phone directories that seemed to contain the whole world. A side lamp glowed there in the evenings, casting a warm, golden pool of light as my grandmother chatted with her acquaintances or jotted down messages in her neat, looping handwriting.

Beyond that, the stairs rose steeply — narrow carpeted treads that creaked beneath my socked feet. To the right, the dining room, a space that had once hosted Sunday roasts and family birthdays, later became my grandfather’s bedroom when his legs could no longer carry him up those stairs. It was a dignified, peaceful room, its bay window dressed with lace curtains that softened the view of the small front courtyard and street beyond.

I can still see the sideboard, a treasure chest of paints, brushes, and handmade cards — my grandmother’s artistic domain. She was a gifted watercolorist, and her cards were miniature masterpieces: delicate flowers intertwined with the name of the recipient, always painted with love. The built-in cupboards on either side of the fireplace were magical to me — their shelves lined with tea services, souvenir trinkets, and novelty ashtrays shaped like seashells or tiny animals or grown up jokes.

At Christmas, the tree stood proudly in that front room, its multicolored plastic lights twinkling like little jewels for all the street to see. I remember pressing my nose to the cold windowpane, mesmerized by their glow.

Straight ahead from the hallway lay the kitchen — a narrow galley, its blue Formica table and two chairs squeezed neatly into one end. The appliances were modest, the counters small, yet my grandmother managed miracles in that little space. There was always the scent of something comforting — bread pudding, apple crumble, or her famous rock cakes cooling on the rack. The back door, with its frosted, bubbly glass, opened onto the wash house, later turned into a potting shed. I think the twin-tub washing machine lived there once, though perhaps that’s just a trick of memory — I can’t quite be sure.

The sitting room was the heart of the home, tucked between the kitchen and the dining room. A gas fireplace, a three-piece suite, and French doors opening onto the small patio. It was always warm — the kind of warmth that comes not just from heat, but from safety and love. In later years, when my grandfather was confined to his wheelchair, my grandmother had a small fish pond built just outside the window so he could watch the golden flashes of life from his chair.

In that room, the cupboards held memories: board games, photo albums, yellowed snapshots of childhoods and pets long gone. On the shelves above — encyclopedias, atlases, and well-thumbed novels. I can still picture the narrow display shelf shaped like a little house, where my grandmother’s thimble collection stood in neat rows — souvenirs from across the UK, Spain, Malta, Ibiza. She spoke good Spanish, having traveled there with my grandfather years before, and sometimes she’d paint those places — their warmth, their colors — as though she could bottle the sunlight itself.

There was another collection too: silver teaspoons, each from a different town or holiday, their tiny emblems gleaming under the dust motes that danced in the light.

At the top of the stairs, the pink bathroom glowed like a sweet shop — from the carpeted floor to the fluffy U-shaped mat that hugged the base of the toilet. Even the toilet seat had its own cover, soft and pastel, and the famous “toilet roll dolly” stood guard — her frilly skirt disguising a secret stash of spare rolls. The air always smelled faintly of talcum powder and soap, and a wall-mounted heater buzzed softly on cold winter mornings.

My grandmother’s guest bedroom overlooked the garden — twin beds dressed with  candlewick spreads. It was a simple, tidy room, yet it carried a deep sense of comfort. I’d often lie awake there during the  weeks when my mother was working, homesick but safe, tracing the pattern of the wallpaper by moonlight and listening to the faint tick of the clock downstairs.

And then there was her room. Always neat, always fragrant with powder and lavender. Her nylon dresses hung in the small wardrobe, their fabrics whispering when you brushed past. On her dresser stood a silver-backed mirror, hairbrush, and comb — all gleaming from years of careful use — and beside them, a pot of peachy face powder topped with a puff tied by a pale aqua ribbon. I can still smell it, soft and floral, like comfort itself.

As the moon outside my present window slipped behind a cloud, the image of that house began to fade — the colors softening, the details slipping away like dreams do when morning comes. The purr beside me deepened; the cat stretched, and the warmth of the present slowly replaced the warmth of memory.

Still, as I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the faint clatter of teacups, the gentle murmur of the gas fire, and my grandmother’s soft humming from the kitchen — the eternal soundtrack of love and home.

My mind transported me again this time to my paternal grandmother's home. But that's for another day.