I can remember staying with my Grandma Thirtle in her little apartment close to downtown Omaha. I remember the bumpy coverlet on her bed, like a Matelesse type pattern. I’m not really sure what it was called. I loved looking at the pattern and tracing through the swirls with my fingers and feeling the soft-roughness of it under my cheek.
I can’t come up with much of how that apartment was set up; I know light came into the
room from a tall window by the bed and that I could look out that window from the bed, while I was supposed to be napping.
I also remember my grandma’s scrambled eggs. They were yellow and white and I thought she did that somehow magically because at home they were yellow. She must not have beat the eggs but maybe cracked them right into the pan, letting them cook before she stirred them. They were always creamy and hot and served with buttered toast. To this day, that is my comfort food when I am sick.
I guess it is a way of keeping my Grandma Thirtle with me; I knew she loved us all dearly and that she was on our side when we desperately needed someone. I don’t think she ever said anything to me about this directly, but my heart knew she was a safe haven.