My Grandmother died
and left me her house. What a beautiful house it was. I’ve been told
she drew up the plans in the 1930s though it was not finished to her
satisfaction until 1962. She selected the land carefully; acres and
acres of unparalleled beauty, with rolling hills and a view of the
beautiful Caribbean. She built her dream home on a gentle slope with
lush gardens all round and enough land to support the house. The
property was big enough for all her children and even their
children. I grew up in this house.
My grandmother fell ill shortly after she finished her house, maybe
because her dream had been realised and there was no more to dream.
The lovely wide verandahs where she entertained her friends, the
rich mahogany floors and all the furniture and trappings from her
own grandmother, everything was perfect. Slowly, the aunts and
uncles all left. Some did well and moved up, others not so well and
consequently fell into poverty. Some emigrated. Only my parents were
left. They tried their best but times had changed and it was not as
easy as in my grandmother’s time.
She had fallen ill
before she’s been able to develop the land as she’d wished.
Neighbours had moved in and captured some of the land and built
businesses there. Some of the poor relations built as well and we
heard a criminal gang had set up behind a stand of trees just out of
view. “We can’t chase them off,” said Gran. “We get a little rent
from the neighbours and the rest are family, we owe it to them and
those others can’t be criminals for, after all, they help the poor.”
Gran was
very ill in the ‘70s, we thought she would die but she
held on. She rallied a little in the early ‘80s then
died. My brothers and I have tried since then to repair
what we could. We would fix and patch where we could but
things slowly got worse, the roof leaked and termites
had started on the very foundation. None of this was
made better when the rich cousins came to visit. They
took my grandfather’s old writing desk saying it would
fit perfectly in their study, I could not say no for she
had been their grandmother too. The poor relations asked
for two of the beds and the fixtures from one of the
bathrooms. How could I say no to cousins less fortunate
than I? Those from abroad came to visit and left with
the cutwork table linen. They said they’d sent Gran a
hundred U. S. dollars every month so there was nothing
wrong.
This has
gone on for so many years now that sometimes I cry in
frustration. My brothers try to cheer me up but I know
they feel the same.
My grandmother’s beautiful house which she spent so much time
and money on is almost a ruin. You can still see what it one was,
particularly when the sun does not shine directly on the peeling
paint. I love the house, I’ve spent most of my life trying to bring
it back to what it once was but I’m getting tired now and I’m not as
young as I used to be.
I’ve seen a lovely piece of land off to the north, it looks
beautiful from here. I’m now in a quandary. Do I build a new house
there? Do I raze my grandmother’s house to the ground and start over
in the same spot? Or do I convince all the family to come together
and try to make all the repairs needed? After all the mahogany
floors are just as beautiful as they always were and the termites
have not yet completely eaten out the foundation. And my
grandmother’s garden is as lovely as it’s always been; that I can’t
take anywhere else. Through the trees, if I prune them a little, I
can still see that amazing azure blue of the sea and maybe I can
call in some help to clear out the little village behind the trees.
