I think I’ve mentioned many times that when I was a little girl I spent a lot of weeks at my Grandmother’s house in rural Iowa.  It was my favorite place in the world and sometimes those memories are still so real and visceral it’s hard to come back to this place where she’s no longer here and so much of that magic is lost.

I can still remember each part of the day clearly, but one of my favorites was morning.  Grandma would be in the kitchen making herself breakfast or cleaning, she’d have the AM radio on low listening to news show and politics show.  Now, I’m not sure if she so much listened as was comforted by the sounds of voices in a somewhat lonely house.  The sounds were all muffled and muted, but they were there and they were always comforting.

Today, we’re being pelted by freezing rain and my school had not yet canceled (now we’re working on an early release, but I am the only teacher that is here presently).  I was under the WRONG impression that local AM radio stations would give out the school closings, not say, “hey, go look at our website.”  Hard to do when DRIVING.

Anyway, they get through with the local news and up next is Paul Harvey.  I’m not going to lie, I cried a little here.  That’s probably not the reaction most have to Paul Harvey and his old, gravelly voice, but it was so much a part of those mornings at Grandma’s.  Her old radio, occasionally bursting with static, Paul Harvey and Rush Limbaugh’s craggly voices bellowing through the room as pots and pans clinked together, cabinets softly banged closed.  I could smell the rain on a spring day and hear a fan whirring quietly up the basement stairs.  It was so quick, so poignant, to be back in that place that had been my ultimate refuge and it literally hurt to not be there–and know that being there would never be an option again.