Dear Editor, My name is Sylvia Molloy. My sister, Lou Mayo, who lives in Toronto, Ontario, subscribes to your wonderful magazine. I, and other family members, also enjoy it monthly. The story I am enclosing was written by Lou's granddaughter, Jessie. It is a touching account of time spent and the memories made at her grandmother's house. When I visited Lou in April 2016, she showed this story to me. Immediately, I asked if I could submit it to Downhome because I could see it fitting in a couple of sections in your publication. On June 6, 2015, Lou ("Weezes," as her grandchildren and the fifty or more other children she has cared for and raised over the years call her) lost her husband, John, to cancer. Shockingly, on August 7, 2015, Lou lost her daughter, Michelle (Jessie's mom) to cancer. I honestly feel that if you could publish this story, it would do Lou, Jessie and so many others a "world of good." I had the honour of meeting Mr. Ron Young a few times over the years. I found him to be kind, approachable and genuinely concerned about our province and its people, especially the many, like my sister, "living away" but whose heart is "home in the community where they were raised." Lou's is Coot's Pond, St. Mary's Bay, NL. Thank you for reading this letter and story. I anticipate a positive response. Sincerely, Sylvia WEEZE'S HOUSE Nothing much ever changes here. I've spent countless mornings sitting at the old wooden table either wolfing down a breakfast of chocolate chip waffles or rushing to finish the last of my math homework. Table cloths made of cheap plastic mark the changing of the seasons; this one is baby blue with smiling snowmen. There are ceramic salt and pepper shakers to match. The memories made at this table bring a smile to my face as I think back to New Year's Eve celebrations, and birthday candles melting onto frosting, and long-winded conversations with my grandmother that I will never forget. Gatherings at her house always afflicted guests with "kitchen-table-itis," as the rest of the house would be empty except for the table and my poppa sitting by himself on the couch. His eyes were almost always closed but his feet tapped to whatever music was being played; I don't think he's ever fooled anyone. I can clearly hear the ticking of the clock on the wall next to the kitchen table, reminding me of how short time was when I was still a kid going to middle school. The clock is probably the most iconic item in this kitchen. It is decades old, hand-carved out of wood with a simple mechanism attached to the hands on its face. It is shaped like an open book, and on either side are faces marked with Roman numerals showing Ontario and Newfoundland time. Above it is a piece of red yarn strung along the wall held up by green wooden clothes pins. Greeting card after greeting card hang on the yarn, adding to the already cozy and love-filled atmosphere. Below the clock are small paper plates with Christmasy designs on them: a snowman, a cardinal holding a holly leaf in its beak, a seemingly hand-painted Santa Claus. A cupboard sits just too close to the table filled with box of cereal after box of cereal and, for some reason, a package of ice cream cones. The contents of that cupboard have not changed for as long as I can remember. The unchanging nature of this place speaks to me with reassurance and comfort. The speckled laminate counter tops are immaculate, almost too clean. Specks of dust do not and cannot linger. Big glass jars painted with flowers the colour of dusty rose with lids to match sit along the wall next to the spotless stainless steel double sink, each labelled with whatever their contents are: Sugar, Flour, Tea, Hot Chocolate. To stand next to the sink is to subject oneself to the heady aroma of lemon Sunlight dish soap and, somehow, dryer sheets. Dirty dishes are blasphemous. The first thought that comes to my mind when I look around is a place for everything and everything in its place. On any other day the table would be as spotless as the counters, but instead the entire space is filled with huge plastic mixing bowls covered in thick quilts and towels. Bread dough is proofing, and suddenly I'm aware of the stifling heat radiating throughout the apartment. The dehumidifier is off and all the windows are shut, the heaters behind the kitchen table turned up high so the dough is safe from any draft. Greased loaf pans lay in waiting atop the new stove, out of place as it does not show age like the other appliances. The oven timer dings, and with the opening of the door the kitchen is enveloped in the aroma of fresh baked bread, and my brain cannot help being wrapped in nostalgic euphoria. I'm salivating as I'm handed a still steaming raisin bun right out of the pan. The entire apartment is soaked in holiday spirit. A short Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room covered from top to trunk in tinsel and old homemade ornaments. Gifts in wrapping of a hundred different colours spill out from under the boughs. Along the wall sits a huge china hutch encasing rarely used glassware and phone charging cables stuffed inside a mug. On the bottom half of the hutch there is another plastic table cloth, this one green with poinsettia flowers on it. A porcelain village is arranged on top and the tiny windows flicker softly from the tea lights inside. Across the room there is a book shelf and each level is filled with yearbooks and encyclopedias. On the top are perched several wind-up snow globes that emit lilting carols played way too often by my baby cousin when he visits. Crocheted stockings are laid over the back of the couch and plush snowmen are placed in every imaginable spot. On the coffee table a faux velvet runner is covered with candle holders and candy dishes; salt water taffy, chocolate in the shapes of bells and little Santas, red and green striped mints. A box of cordial cherries sits unopened on the bottom level of the coffee table. My poppa is the only one who likes them. They are the fruitcake of holiday chocolates. Looking up from the table there is a spherical faceted light fixture that has been there since my grandparents moved in over 40 years ago. Hung in a spoke pattern on the ceiling are coloured mylar streamers with card stock illustrations pinned to the stucco between each shiny scallop. The whimsical design of the room makes me smile. Looking down at the carpet I remember a Christmas when I was about 5 years old. The carpet was off-white, something nobody ever understood since my grandmother always had kids running around her place and covered the entire floor, not like now; an antique-looking maroon and cream coloured area rug lay on exposed hardwood flooring. My young head could not be wrapped around how charcoal boot prints appeared on the carpet Christmas morning, but I was mesmerized with wonder and the enigma of Santa Claus didn't get much more real than that for me. My grandmother's - Weezes, as everyone calls her house - will always be one of my favourite places to be. Just something about walking into a room and immediately feeling loved doesn't get much better than that. Written by Jessie Mercedes Hannah Toronto, Ontario   Submitted By: Sylvia Molloy