Her house is white (of course). It is modest, but in a very nice area of Connecticut. The lawn is immaculate, and there are flowers all around. Proper appearances are so important. What would the neighbors think? Inside the house is another story. It is clean, sure, but full of every single artifact ever owned by the Harris’. Helen does not throw things away. Helen plans to show me all of it, every piece.

I lived just outside of Boston, and neither needed or had a car. I stepped off the train in Middletown, CT, and there she was. Helen, my Grandmother. I called her Helen. We didn’t hug, or even shake hands, though the moment was very powerful. In these situations, you are sort of conditioned to know what you SHOULD do, and what you SHOULD feel, but I found that I didn’t. The whole trip down, I thought I would step off the train and we’d cry, cry over the lost years, and the lost love, and that we’d just hold each other there at the depot. Instead we said formal hellos, got in the car, and drove to her house. Nothing more. I am sure that this sounds bad or negative, but it wasn’t. It was exactly the same thing that people do when they meet long lost aunts and uncles or 3rd cousins. They are strangers, although family, and love and trust are long term emotions, things that come with familiarity. We had no familiarity.

In spite of that, we had a wonderful day. I saw pictures and keepsakes. I mowed her lawn. She had gone to the store to get milk and cookies, as if I was a child coming to visit, rather than a 28-year-old man.

And we talked, and talked, and talked. We had no uncomfortable silences. We caught up on 28 years of life, both of us wanting to know everything about the other. She marveled at how much I looked like Nancy. This makes sense, as I am the only child, the last of the bloodline. Helen had seen plenty of family that Nancy looked like, but had never seen someone who looks like Nancy. I am not sure that the difference between the two is clear to all, but it was to Helen.

Helen bowls a lot. It is something that seems the opposite of every other trait about her. If she told me she played bridge, it’d fit. If she told me she was in a book club, it’d fit. If she told me that she gardened (which she does), it’d fit. However, being an avid member of a bowling league, silly shirt and all, though a perfectly fine pastime, well, it just don’t fit.

She asked if I bowled, and I said sometimes, but I wasn’t very good. Hold on, I’ll be right back. Up the stairs, through closets, trunks, old boxes. Back down the stairs, and in my hand is "How To Bowl Tenpin Like The Pros", a pamphlet that looks like the instructions that come with your vacuum cleaner. It was endorsed by the PBA probably around 1975, and although I still have it, and it is cherished, I have yet to read it, and I will, most likely, never bowl tenpin like the pros.

We hugged when I left. A lot can change in a day.

Matthew Grolnic, Copyright 2001-2003