![]() ![]() What I can remember is letting my romantic imagination run wild, whisked away on the wind it skipped and danced with the fireflies, as the gloaming’s quiet magic turned the sun from gold to red to dim. Perhaps the sounds of my sisters doing cartwheels in the yard could be heard or perhaps my father drove his big van down the gravel driveway and, after stopping with a final crunch, emerged from the front seat with a six-pack of beer – these are the details I can’t recall. Sitting in the grass behind her house I would wonder who sat here a century ago and imagine the stone garage and little barn lining the yard’s perimeter were still the chauffer’s and the gardener’s domain. Fascinating treasures told of a time when my grandmother was a knockout who wore sparkly dresses and fur coats to fancy parties when the women of the house hosted dinner parties with fine china and good silver and when adults, influenced by depression era proclivities, stockpiled commodities like matchbooks and sugar packets.ĭuring visits to my grandmother’s house, I felt like I was a girl in one of my books like The Secret Garden who slept in a bedroom with a four-poster bed and whose only amusement was to wander the grounds and daydream. Scattered throughout, the secrets of her youth and the soap opera stories of those who came before her could be found in dark cellars, deep closets, and heavy oak drawers. ![]() Her house was like a living breathing thing with character and history. My memories of my grandmother are made three dimensional by the details of her environment – the sound of the creaky back stairs, the smell of mothballs in her large linen closet, the hum of crickets drifting into her living room on summer nights while my sister and I listened to old records and my grandmother danced in the arms of an invisible beau, her nightly glass of sherry in hand. She was tough and smart and energetic and the guts and nerve contained in her petite 5’0 frame rivaled that of any 10 men. Her knick-knacks were precious, her attire was elegant, and she always wore her hair in a youthful red bob. She was not a traditional grandmother in any sense. I imagine her now, standing in her doorway at 12 am in a cotton nightgown, ushering my rumpled and crumpled family of eight inside after the long voyage between our home in Syracuse, New York to hers in Massachusetts. Each article of clothing, piece of furniture, and accessory seemed perfectly suited to her style and personality. This article has been viewed 330,086 times.My grandmother belonged in her home like a doll in her dollhouse. He is board certified in Foot Surgery and Reconstructive Rearfoot & Ankle Surgery and is also a Diplomate of the American Board of Foot & Ankle Surgery and a fellow of the American College of Foot & Ankle Surgeons (FACFAS). Blitz received his DPM from the New York College of Podiatric Medicine, then completed a residency focused on Elective & Reconstructive Foot & Ankle Surgery at the Swedish Medical Center, and was awarded an AO Trauma fellowship in Dresden, Germany, focused on trauma and reconstructive techniques. He has over 17 years of podiatric experience and specializes in minimally invasive foot and ankle surgery. Blitz is “The Bunion King®” and is the creator of the Bunionplasty® Procedure (plastic surgery for bunions) which has revolutionized bunion surgery. Neal Blitz is a Podiatrist and Foot & Ankle Surgeon who runs private practices in New York City and in Beverly Hills, California. ![]() This article was co-authored by Neal Blitz, DPM, FACFAS. This article has been viewed 330,086 times. ![]()
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