Fann's Guest Room

I tend to ruminate. Although I have heard advice from other women not to ruminate. Sometimes I just stop and ruminate anyway.
This morning I was thinking about my grandmother's house. When it is quiet here in the morning I remember being quiet in her guest room.
She had what was once considered a large house. By today's standards it wouldn't be. It was a colonial style (having been built by a family from Kentucky to be like a house they remembered) and had two levels as well as a huge attic and a basement. It had two large white pillars in front coming up from a brick landing with stairs down to a large rose garden. There was a big magnolia tree on one side of the yard.
In the guest room upstairs you could see the magnolia tree looking in at you with its big white blossoms, which I never found particularly appealing in those days. They were okay but kind of big and strange to me then.
She had chenille bedspreads perfectly laid out over the sheets and blankets. If we were to take a nap up there those bedspreads had to be carefully folded down to the bottom of the bed so we wouldn't get them dirty with our feet. Our shoes were removed.
There were two twin beds, high off the ground with firm mattresses, the firmest I had ever been on. The windows would be open and you could hear the birds and hear cars passing on the street. Sometimes you would sleep and sometimes you would just lie there.
Sometimes the smell of dinner would rise up the staircase and you would be happy to know that soon they would call you. There was always homemade bread and homemade preserves.
I have very strong memories of these quiet times.
Once when my son was a little boy he said, "Everything is always okay at Fann's house."
Yes, all the drama and pain were behind them by the time I could remember. All was clean and quiet and well ordered. Dinner was always at a certain time, the dishes done, the lights turned off in the kitchen.
It was almost impossible to sneak in for a late night snack.