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Aspetuck Valley Apple Barn, Black Rock Turnpike, Easton, CT

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Aspetuck Valley Apple Barn, Black Rock Turnpike, Easton, CT

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Aspetuck Valley Apple Barn, Black Rock Turnpike, Easton, CT

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The apple barn was the one location I always wanted to visit when I was younger. They sold warm crisp apple turnovers, rich pumpkin ice cream, and the tastiest sweet donuts. The only place we could find apples of sufficient quality for the Thanksgiving apple pie. I begged my Grandparents to take me there every weekend ever since I was 6 years old. On a crisp autumn day, the three of us piled into the silver Porsche that my grandfather had worked so hard to afford. It was his emblem that he had made it in this world, and second only to me in terms of his pride and joy was that. He would drive it to the golf club where he desperately wanted to fit in and not embarrass himself with his golfing skills. It was a sad day, when my father had to take the car away from him because he was no longer trusted with it. When Alzheimer's started to kick in, he was found taking drives in the middle of the night. My grandma told my father he had to take it away, to reside in our driveway, never driven by Grandpa again.

Grandpa grabbed his spoiled cocker spaniel max and put him in his lap. Grandma accompanied him as he drove through the vibrantly colored trees that painted the town in the fall. We went by the reservoir where I had always imagined jumping into the vast blue void. We arrived at the rustic Apple barn after our lovely trip, with its exterior red paint peeling and its charming pumpkins luring you inside. While inside, my six year old brain was flooded and overwhelmed with the sweets and small halloween themed stuffed animals, running from table to table begging my grandma for her to purchase another meaning less toy. I was so exhausted that only one thing drew my attention. a white plush dog with red floral accents. I figured I could obtain this puppy with only a little incensed pleading. I was right, too. My grandmother folded like paper.

On the way home, I placed my new dog in my lap in the same manner that my grandfather had done with Max. I didn't even care to think back on the memory I had spent with my grandparents while driving home because I was so engrossed in my new item. That was the final time we all went to the apple barn together. The small store, now under new management and dilapidated, on the side of the road, portending its impending fate as a gas station. My grandparents, now gone along with this little shop, the only thing remaining is the little white dog, sitting patiently in my closet. Waiting for me to cherish him, the same way I once did.

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Some of my first memories of my Grandfather include Saturdays on the wooden porch eating popsicles and talking about the future, knowing my grandpa barely remembered the past. My grandpa would grab the fudgsicles, while I grabbed the creamsicles, knowing he only bought them for me. I loved my grandparents' house. Their milky pond with frogs croaking at all hours of the day. The mini frigid downstairs filled to the brim with mint chocolate chip ice cream and colas, a secret we shared. He would give me sage advice out on that porch, which college I should attend, the type of dog I should get, how to finesse my parents. I was only 10 when they

had to sell the house and all the memories that came with it. I had to say goodbye to my macaroni paintings in my grandparents bedroom, the white fur rug I spilled my orange juice over, and then hid it under the glowing 10ft tall christmas tree. Worst of all, the new owner tore down the beloved porch, the only memories of my authentic grandfather leaving with it. They filled in the pond with frogs I would capture on hot sunny days. They built a pool over the field I forged for easter eggs screaming with delight. The other day, I drove down the same gravel road I had so many years ago, not recognizing the once beloved house. It was modernized, losing its charm in the process. Once holding everyone I was loved, now only filled with superficial items and tacky wallpaper. The new appearance of the house started to erase my memory of the old one. The feeling of nostalgia and happiness associated with this house started to seep away, becoming infected with negative emotions. It is said change is inevitable and change is really the only constant in life. But for once, I wanted something to stay the same surrounding my Grandparents. After all they had gone through, all we had gone through, I wanted just one thing to stay the same. The house,  once a form of comfort, now just a stain in the back of my brain reminding me nothing will be the same.  But in my mind, it will always be the same as it was on cold nights cooking paella with my grandmother or opening presents on Christmas day together in front of the fire. A piece of me will forever be connected to 43 Ogden Road.

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Waveny LifeCare Network, Farm Road, New Canaan, CT

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Waveny LifeCare Network, Farm Road, New Canaan, CT

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Waveny LifeCare Network, Farm Road, New Canaan, CT

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Waveny Care center is a bittersweet place for me.  When I was younger, Waveny was such a happy place. I used to frolic in Waveny park with my grandparents sitting happily watching me on a bench nearby. My Grandpa would push me on the swing as I giggled with delight. As I grew older, the joy started to seep out of this once happy place. Around age 10, my grandpa's dementia started to get worse so he lived in the resident's home around the corner called “Waveny Care Center ''. Despite the sad reasons my Grandpa had to live at the residents home, it was still a joyous time for everyone. My grandpa flourished at Waveny and made many new friends, fitting in nicely. When we would visit, my mom would bring crafts or balloons and we would always bring cookies for the nurses. We started to become beloved by the faculty, especially me. They loved me, the cute granddaughter who would liven up the stiff white rooms that saw death on a daily basis. My Grandfather thrived at this home. All was well, but as time went on his memory and grip on reality slipped. One day, he looked at me with utter confusion. I was concerned and asked

“Is everything ok Grandpa?” and his next three simple words caused me heartache. At age 10 I was not ready to hear these words form my own grandfather.

“Who are you?” Stunned by the question, I stood back, dumbfounded, not knowing what to say. A nearby nurse noticed my discomfort and hurried over. Speaking with a false sense of optimism she asked a question she already knew the answer to.

“Why Allen, you know who this is. This is your Granddaughter! Do you remember her name?”  I waited for his response, fear was striking through my heart with every passing second. My own Grandfather didn’t know me. After what felt like years he simply shook his head as if he had never met me in his life. He shook his head like this moment was benign and forgettable.

The nurse stumbled away knowing she only made things worse. After that day, my grandpa never uttered my name again. Late into his condition, it was an achievement if he was even able to squeak out a word.

Despite it all though, I knew who my grandfather was, even though half my life he did not know who I was. I knew him. I knew he loved the art of golf, I knew he loved raspberries but hated anything with lemons, I knew his favorite band was CBGB’s, and I knew deep down how incredibly insecure he was. But most importantly, I knew he loved me. Although he lost the ability to say these words to me, he expressed it in little ways, like when he would tap his foot when I would sing to him. He showed his love through longing stares frustrated with the lack of words that came out of his mouth.  He would make an effort to smile when I would feed him, or draw pictures to decorate his dull and dreary room. I knew he loved me,  he teared up whenever I said goodbye, breaking my heart because I knew one day it would be the last.