The Vestibule

On holidays, my father would park the Oldsmobile in the street just outside my grandparents' home on Jericho Road and I would gaze out the car window up to the old house. I loved visiting my grandparents. They had the most beautiful home on earth and they were kind, affectionate, funny, and incredibly elegant. It was as if my father's family were descendants of royalty. They never seemed to work and yet they lived in a huge colonial house filled with antique furniture. My mother's parents on the other hand were very blue collar. I am more like them. Going to see my grandparents in the city was like going home; it was a place of comfort and loud laughter and familiar faces. But visiting my grandparents in the suburbs was an adventure. We got dressed up and were told to be on our best behaviour and to use a coaster when we put our glass on any wood surface. These things were whispered to my oldest brother and I as we walked up the steps and entered into the vestibule. Mum would ring the doorbell and from deep inside the house, up on the second floor, we would hear Nana shriek like a seventeen year old girl receiving a new car for her birthday. Following this we would hear her scream "They're here!!! Tom! Tom!! They're here!!!" I would peek through the glass beside the door and see her spin down from the first flight, onto the landing and then frantically race down the next flight of stairs until she reached the front door. She'd swing it open and scream, "You're here!!" Hugs and smooches and "let me take your coat" and compliments to my mother mingled in an air filled with the smell of poultry, fresh baked pies, a roaring fire, and mothballs. No one in my life has ever been as excited to see me as my paternal grandmother. Even now, she still opens the door of her apartment beaming when she knows I'm on the other side. That feeling is without question, absolutely wonderful.