Their house was a small one which faced the road and had an intriguing tree in front of it. My grandfather told me it was a Chinaberry Tree. It was not very tall and had a few trunks, none of which was more than four to six inches in diameter, branching from a couple feet above its base. The general effect was that it looked like a large umbrella. The branches had an abundance of small round berries that Grandpa said I shouldn't eat because they would make me sick. I enjoyed climbing up the branches and just sitting there quietly watching birds come and get the berries. I don't believe I've seen another Chinaberry tree since.

In back of the house were a chicken shed, a pig shed and a small barn, each appropriately occupied with a few chickens, pigs and a milk cow. Sometimes Grandpa let me help him feed corn to the chickens. Just like I did with our chickens, it was fun to throw a handful in one direction and watch them rush over and peck the ground finding the corn. Then, I would toss another handful in the opposite direction, watch the rush and, just as they reached that handful, I'd toss another in a third direction. When Grandpa saw me doing this he scolded me telling me that I'd cause the chickens to run off too much weight; they needed to be plump when it was time to pick one to eat. He wouldn't let me help with the pigs because the slop bucket was too heavy for a little boy but, after we ate, he let me take the table scraps to the pigs. They seemed to enjoy eating the scraps. The cow I could pet.

The first time I got a call from nature while at Grandpa's, I asked him where was his outhouse. He told me that, if I have to do Number 1, just to go behind one of the sheds or the barn. If you have to do Number 2, go over there. He pointed to some trees further away from the road, probably a couple hundred yards or, at least, it seemed that far. Just before I reached the trees, the ground would drop about six feet. Go down to the next level and follow it until I saw a pile of corn cobs. There I should pick a cob and choose a spot away from the pile, squat, do my business and, when I was done, use the cob like I would the Sears catalog and then cover what I did with a few handfuls of leaves; there were plenty around.

One of the more pleasant things to do while there was to eat one of Grandma's home cooked meals. She made great biscuits and I loved to watch her making them. All of the cooking was done on an old fashioned wood stove with a firebox to one side, a large oven box with at least two shelves and four removable round lids above the oven box. The only time a lid was off was when you placed a pot or pan over its opening to get greater heat to the pot or pan. I still marvel at how expert were the women who cooked on these stoves.

To do her ironing, Grandma had a set which consisted of some flatirons which had no handles and a D-shaped handle with a thumb switch used to attach it to a flatiron. Each flatiron, made of cast iron, looked like a small battleship with no superstructure and had a place on top for the attachment of a handle. On one of my visits, I watched Grandma do some ironing. She put her flatirons on the hot woodstove and, when they were hot, she put the handle down on one, flipped the thumb switch and picked it up and began ironing with it. She would use it until she felt that it was no longer hot enough and, then, in a deft sweeping motion, she would return the flatiron to the stovetop and pick up another and continue ironing. This was all in one continuous motion, with hardly any hesitation as it was, place, switch, drop, move to another, place the handle, switch, move back to ironing board....and all the while talking with me. This is one of my many memory scenes that replays itself with no prompting from me.

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