Grandpa John and the Little House

When Grandma Bertha and Grandpa John got too old to handle the big house below the church and moved to the small cottage beside Eliza and Isaiah's, it must have seemed like moving into a dollhouse. He was a big man, although he had started to shrink somewhat, and suddenly he was sitting on smaller chairs and eating at a smaller table. Gone was his big garden and apple trees, and the wood shed where he had split large chunks of wood for the parlor stove.

It was understandable that his confinement in the smaller space would make him cranky. When he got tired of doing what few chores grandma could find for him to do, he would follow her in the kitchen, making sure she was "doing everything right." That didn't wear so well with her. To make matters worse, my mother began sending me over there to "help out." Now he had two people to keep track of.

My main task was to do the sweeping and dusting one morning, while grandma was slicing and drying apples in the kitchen. This entailed cutting the fruit in quarters, threading them on a string, and hanging the strings from corner to corner in the warm kitchen to dry for pie-making.
I began sweeping the front parlor. Grandpa eyed my work for a while, then began clearing his throat loudly and pointing to "missed spots." Then he went to the kitchen and began talking to grandma in stage whispers.

"She's just not doing it right," he was complaining. Then I heard grandma's booming voice. "John W." she said, "I want you to high-tail it out of here and don't come back for an hour. Go over to Grace's and tell her Ella Ruth's doing a fine job." Grumpily he complied, and when I got home mom complimented me for being such a help to grandma.

I don't know how old grandpa was at that time, and for all I know, he was ill and failing, but may heaven keep me from turning into an old grump as I age.