Dwelling Place

When I feel myself floating untethered in an ethereal mess of chaos and stuff, I reach for touchstones, something to connect me back to the people and places who ground me. Usually it’s a quick touch or snuggle from my husband or children. But sometimes I have to reach a bit farther. We were approaching what would have been her 95th birthday and I craved Grandmama. I grabbed my apron and cups and canisters and made quick work of throwing together my grandmother’s ingredients for her biscuits recipe.  I’m hardly at all like her, aside from the name we share.  Picture a 90-pound lady, apron strings wrapped back around her tiny waist and tied at her front, perfectly coiffed hair (thanks, Aquanet), and a smoking cigarette resting perfectly on the edge of a silver plated ringed ashtray. By the time I began paying attention to such things, her nails were always polished in the same shade, her hands wrinkled and bumpy and spotted the way a grandmother’s hands should be.  At doub