A home for a monster, my mom, and me
I’ve never met the monster in the basement of my grandmother’s house.
His name is Hercurmur, according to my mom’s older sisters, who terrorized her with his existence when she was young. I believed in him, too — especially before Memaw, my mother’s mother, finished the basement with carpet and comfy leather couches and a big TV.
(Two notes on spelling: I like to spell my grandma’s moniker Meamaw, but the a is extraneous, according to the rest of the family. Secondly, I texted the group chat of women on my mom’s side of the family — aunts, cousins, and the matriarch herself — because while Hercurmur’s name has always struck fear in my mom’s heart, she wasn’t sure how to spell it. My aunt Susie, the eldest sister, was the authoritative scholar on the subject. Apparently Hercurmur conveniently moved in when she started babysitting her younger sisters and needed to scare them into minding.)
Monster in the basement or not, that house is still “home” to my mother — or at least the town of Madisonville is. My parents went to college in Bowling Green, then returned there after my mom finished law school. All four of their children were born in Bowling Green, and they’ve lived there longer than they ever lived in Madisonville.
But whenever they planned a trip to Madisonville while I was growing up, they both said “We’re going home.”
We always laughed at this. Surely our house, with our own beds and the pool out back and the junk drawer and the snack cabinet, was their home. And it was — “Madisonville will just always be home, too,” they’d say.
Because both of my parents are from the area, much of our family is still there. We don’t visit often enough (which is what we normally hear when we say goodbye after a weekend visit), but when we do, we have a lot of family to see.
One of the houses we always visit is Memaw’s, where my mom and her sisters grew up and where my grandparents lived together until Papaw died of Parkinson’s in 1998, six weeks after I was born.
When we walk in, Memaw is normally watching a game (Kentucky basketball, St. Louis Cardinals baseball) or playing one (cards or Mexican train) at the dining room table. I’m always quick to claim one of the upstairs bedrooms so I can sleep far from any monsters. Most of the time that’s our meeting place, to see aunts and cousins and even people from my dad’s side of the family.
We’ve gathered there for Christmas plenty of times, but when I think of Memaw’s house, I always think of Easter. Rarely can we get every single member of the family together, but Easters come pretty close. (Most of the times we’ve missed it is because Easter fell on spring break and we were with my other grandparents at the beach.)
When I think of Easter, I do think of food — but not a ham or anything like that. Instead, I think of eggs. Memaw’s Easter egg hunt for all the grandkids is legendary, and I participated for as long as I possibly could (maybe I can sneak in one more time next year). Her yard is filled with flower pots and twisted roots and plenty of other places to hide eggs, including what we greedy kids wanted the most: the ones with money instead of candy.
The other tradition is taking pictures in the front yard — family by family, then Memaw with her daughters, then Memaw with her sons-in-law, then Memaw with her grandkids. As the families have expanded, so have the combinations. When I was younger, we always took these pictures (in which my siblings and I were normally matching) in front of one particular tree in the middle of the yard. But it had to be cut down and the replacement never grew as big or tall, so the picture positions have changed over the years.
Easter or not, Memaw’s house always has games to play (at your own peril, since Memaw loves to win), family stories to be told (including horror stories), and good desserts to eat (she’s my role model, as she once said, “I only eat food to get to the dessert”).
Every time we leave, Memaw stands on her front patio to watch us go. We pause in front of the house to wave goodbye before heading back to Bowling Green — my mom going from one home to another.
