She parked across the street from the little red brick house and stared
at it, letting memories wash over her.
She heard her grandmother cooking in the small eat-in kitchen, a little
frazzled as always and cussing under her breath every so often. Everything
always tasted great.
In the basement, her grandfather had his workshop tucked into a corner,
and he puttered around down there, mainly to avoid his frazzled, cussing wife
while she cooked.
Ivy grew on the brick, and there was a Redbud tree her grandmother had
planted back in the ‘50’s that somehow survived the Wisconsin winters.
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