By Lindsay Sledge 
Jack and Nancye built a house on Wakefield Drive in 1988, the year their first grandchild was born. The year I was born.
It was a three-bedroom, brick ranch with bright red shutters situated on nearly an acre of land, the perfect amount of space for a garden for Grandpa and a pool for Grammie. I learned from an early age to bypass the front door, knowing if I unlatched the side gate and strolled past the daffodils, the back door would be open.
Grandpa would wave from the back of the property, tending to the tomatoes or riding on his John Deere. Grammie would greet me in the kitchen with a “Hey girl” and invite me to join her at the table to snap string beans or sip freshly brewed sweet tea.
There was little fuss and few formalities at the house on Wakefield Drive. Family was always welcome, no matter the time of day or month of the year.
When I was young, Grammie hosted sleepovers for my sisters and me. Despite being a mother to three boys herself, she delighted in her four granddaughters. Grammie devoted an entire hallway closet to dress-up clothes brimming with her colorful slips, too-big bras, and floppy hats. My sisters and I would don the apparel and giggle in the hall, plotting out plays about princesses and storybook characters. Then we’d stride into the living room and put on a show for Grammie who clapped and cheered until we took our final bows.
When I was older, I spent less time dressing up and more time in my swimsuit by the pool. Grandpa diligently maintained the water, making sure it was clean, clear, and ready for guests, though he rarely took a dip himself. Grammie, however, swam frequently in her floral one-piece suit, always careful to keep her permed hair above the surface.
The Fourth of July was the exception—her birthday. The one day of the year when she swam freely. Grammie would slowly make her way toward the diving board and grab onto the sides. She’d grin at the chants of “Do it! Do it!” from my sisters and me on pool floats scattered about the deep end. She’d hold her breath, extend her arms, and dunk herself into the warm, blue water. She soaked in the sounds of our wild applause and shouts of “Hooray!”
I’d peek at Grandpa, smiling down from the deck, where he churned homemade ice cream in what looked like an old wooden bucket. Only when the sunscreen wore off and our pruney fingers demanded a break did we all towel off and walk toward the deck ourselves. Grandpa would say a few words about his beloved bride, then he’d lead us in singing “Happy Birthday.” Afterward, we enjoyed the traditional ice cream treat.
Eventually, I graduated and enrolled in a university located 12 hours away. I longed for the semester break when I could return to the house on Wakefield Drive. While I loved the ease of the summer season, Christmastime was my favorite.
On Christmas Eve, my grandparents hosted a celebration for their children, grandchildren, and later their great-grandchildren. It was the only day I would enter through the front door, for the simple pleasure of hearing “Jingle Bells” chime from my grandparents’ doorbell. Grandpa would embrace me in the entryway with open arms. I’d hear Grammie’s “Hey girl” from the kitchen. We’d eat finger foods off fine china, plunk out carols on the piano, and circle up for an annual gift exchange. The house overflowed with joy on this day—a joy I will forever cherish.
Grandpa was the first to move onto his heavenly home in the winter of 2020—the day before I found out I was pregnant with his fourth great-grandchild. I flew in for the funeral, yearning to watch him wave from the garden so I could tell him the news of the baby growing in my belly. But the yard was empty.
My grandmother joined him two years later. Once again, I flew in for the funeral. When I walked in through the back door, though, there was no “Hey girl” to greet me. There were no string beans to snap at the kitchen table. Clothes were no longer ready for dress-up but rather set in piles to be given away. I reluctantly glanced at the pool through the windows, the water once clean and clear was now speckled with fallen leaves. A house full of life replaced with loss.
Jack and Nancye built a house on Wakefield Drive in 1988. The house was sold to another family in 2023.
Sometimes I dream at night about unlatching the side gate and strolling past the daffodils. I grin at my grandfather as he rides across the lawn on his tractor. When I hear “Jingle Bells” around the holidays, I remember what it felt like to wait in wonder on my grandparents’ front porch on Christmas Eve.
And every Fourth of July, I put on a one-piece swimsuit and take my kids down the street to the pool in our neighborhood. They jump freely into the water, and I glide along the surface until I reach the place where it is deep. I dive into the depths, allowing my hair to become a wet, messy heap. When I rise to the surface and the sun caresses my skin, I hear a gentle whisper across the water, “Hey girl.”
by Miranda Hawkins 
by Kelli Bachara 
by Krystal Sieben 
