My dad’s parents, Grandma Marge and Grandpa Paul, lived here in Phoenix, on a big lot of land we all referred to as “The Farm.” It was 5 acres of nothing but their house, my Grandpa’s barn, where he was always restoring old cars, and desert for me and my cousins to explore, play cops and robbers, hide and seek, and have great adventures before grandma called us all in for “supper.” Even the house itself was magical. Two stories, that were held together by a spiral metal staircase. The lower level housed a “back room” that was often the focal point of me and my cousin Katherine’s many playdates. We would play with grandma’s old sewing machine, go through her button and coin collections, look at photographs, etc. One of our favorite games was the challenge of sneaking through the house, from the downstairs to the upstairs kitchen to get a gingersnap without anyone ever detecting us. We would crawl on our hands and feet, under tables and Grandma and Grandpa would never catch us. Of course, as I got older, I realize they most certainly had to see us. We were just little kids, not ninjas, but we were never stopped from reaching the cookies. Sometimes, Grandma would walk in the kitchen and act totally surprised to see us as we giggled and giggled, crumbs everywhere.
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