The Linden Cottage

My grandmother, Mimi, started her garden in 1978 and worked on it year round until she finally moved in 2016. Her garden surrounded the slate pathway leading up to the pink screen door that would slap back and bite your fingers if you didn’t move your hands fast enough. This garden was framed by ivy that climbed up the weathered gray shingles, creeping its way through window frames and underneath the black shutters. Pink roses stretched above the ivy, reaching above the pink door. Also above the door was a white sign with Linden Cottage written in cursive, the name Mimi had decided upon for the house because of the massive linden tree in the front lawn that would drop its yellow flowers on everyone’s cars. We had a baby swing attached to the linden tree for years, my uncle being the first to use it and my youngest brother being the last. 

Once you passed through the pink screen door, you entered the sunroom. Three large photographs of my grandparents at their wedding hung on the wall. Mimi and my grandfather, Pops, were only nineteen when they got married in 1967. The first photograph depicts my grandparents smiling and holding hands, looking youthful in their wedding attire. The next two photos are of my grandparents feeding each other a slice of cake while laughing, probably nervously. Beneath the photos, you’d encounter yet another screen door, this one even more vocal than the other. The door led to the brick patio, covered by a pink awning which made everything beneath it glow with a rosy light, tinting all the photos taken there. The patio then connected to the slate walkway bordering the pool. Here was where you’d find the other garden, Mimi’s masterpiece. This garden was also completely surrounded by ivy, much like everything else at that house. The ivy had been planted over thirty years before, and over the years it had consumed the rotting fence beneath it, the vines being the only thing keeping the decaying planks upright. 

Mimi hates squirrels. She used to sit on the patio in a bamboo framed chair with pink cushions, a cigarette between her lips and knitting needles in her hands, watching for the squirrels through her red bifocals. When she’d spot a squirrel perched on her bird feeder, she’d grab her long bamboo squirrel-whacking stick and creep over, stalking her prey. With the most might a chain-smoking senior citizen could muster up, she’d strike the bird feeder with the stick, not even coming close to being fast enough to hit the squirrel. Most of the time the squirrels would see her approaching and scurry away, resulting in a “Shhhhit!”

Pops found lots of entertainment in watching the frequent Mimi vs. squirrel showdowns. “Ya gotta be a little faster, Schwartz,” he’d call to Mimi in his Rhode Island accent, Schwartz being a nickname she had gained after a friend had once compared her to General Schwarzkopf. Mimi would usually fire back with, “Oh shut up, Brad!” taking a drag of her cigarette, going back to her knitting. 

My grandparents had built the house before they had even turned thirty, moving in with their four kids, including my mother. Many of my earliest memories took place at that house, one of them being my obsession with touching the purple glass butterfly that hung in the window. My uncle Pat, whom I called Gino (we are a family that likes to make nicknames), would always lift me up to touch the butterfly. Just as I could feel the cool glass approach my fingertip, Uncle Gino would aggressively tickle my ribs, causing my small frame to shake with laughter, my blonde curls bouncing while I attempted to break free of his grip. The older I got, the less I saw Uncle Gino at that house. Uncle Gino and my grandparents no longer talk. I can reach the butterfly on my own now. 

Mimi’s garden around the pool was completely consumed by sweet peas on the left side. She always hated the way they rose from the ivy, attracting every single bee within a five-mile radius. I personally didn’t mind, except for when the bees would get stuck in the pool, and I’d attempt to save them by cupping them in water and throwing them out, avoiding their stingers. The garden was truly magical. Time and time again I would be mesmerized by the sea of blues and purples and yellows and greens and pinks that blended together like a Monet painting. The scent of the gardenias was addictive, although I’d always be careful not to bring my nose too close to the crisp white petals. Mimi always said that gardenias brown with the lightest touch. The peonies—my mom’s favorite—drooped from the weight of their magenta heads as ants crawled up their stems. Other residents of the garden included black-eyed Susans, irises, two butterfly bushes, echinacea, and of course, the honeysuckle. I would gingerly walk between the pockets of plants to pick the honeysuckle, pinching the stems of the pink and white flowers and pulling out the sweet nectar. 

In 2006 my grandparents changed the bottom of the pool from a vinyl liner to gunite, making the pool look much more like a water feature rather than a play area. The gunite, although beautiful, was rough, leaving my feet raw and red after hours spent in the shallow end. We nicknamed the pool the NFP, standing for the No Fun Pool. We were never allowed to throw balls in the pool because, according to Mimi, too many of her lilies had been “decapitated.” Mimi didn’t even allow floats, all of the ones we bought for the NFP mysteriously “getting caught on a nail” and deflating. Even without the floaties, the pool provided my brothers and me with countless hours of entertainment, only hopping out when our fingers were pruned and our eyes were stained red with chlorine.

Pops is a seemingly simple guy. An ex-stockbroker, he now owns the family business, a painting company. He enjoys watching the Red Sox, westerns, and telling stories that everyone has heard fifteen times already. Pops is known for his bright sweater vests and funky socks that usually match, all of which are made by Mimi. When I was younger, he always liked to remind me how he could still beat me in a swim race since back in the day he was one of the “best athletes in Rhode Island.” Usually once or twice a summer, Pops would suddenly emerge from the small pool room wearing his pink swim trunks with flowers on them and dive into the deep end, causing my little brothers and me to shriek with surprise and laughter. He’d last for a couple of minutes before retreating back under the pink awning wrapped up in a towel.

For years, Pops’s blue Bud Light cans appeared harmless, and honestly I hadn’t really noticed them until they were gone. When I was in eighth grade, Pops’s heart came close to failing. According to my mom, his body had swollen up so much that he could barely even move. When all this happened, I scarcely knew. Same goes with a lot of things that happened there. After this close call, he stopped with the Bud Light for awhile. I assumed it was because of the calories. 

For years, Mimi and Pops tried to sell the house. I always had the urge to kick the navy blue Sotheby’s For Sale sign in the front yard. It looked so ugly next to the purple clematis that lounged over the stone wall in the front. It didn’t belong there. After a few years and several failed offers on the house, I figured it might just never sell, but in the summer of 2016, it did. My mom and I came to help pack the house, finding a wide array of items. We found dresses that my great-grandmother wore, which my mom and grandma both insisted I try on (they did not fit), dolls that now were missing eyes and patches of hair that my mom had once played with, a handle of vodka my grandpa had hidden in the closet, my mom’s old love letters and poems from college, a saddle from her horseback riding days, and over thirty years worth of random objects. 

Oddly, I can’t remember the last time I was there. I can still feel the house like I was there five minutes ago. The colors of the garden have stained my eyelids, the rustle of the ivy and buzzing of bees in the sweet peas still endlessly hum in my eardrums. The smell of the cigarette smoke that I had pretended to hate because my mom did lingers in my nostrils. When I drive by the house, I imagine myself running up the driveway, swinging open the pink screen door, and reclaiming the only place I thought I would have forever. The ivy has been ripped off, the fence has been torn down, and the shutters have been painted, but I hope the garden still remains.