Red Stairs and Fudge

The house I lived in when I was a toddler was right next door to my great grandmother’s home. I’ve been told that I would occasionally go AWOL from my crib and find my way over there.

My very first memory is a vivid memory of wood stairs. They were thick and rough, and painted red. They led up to my great-grandmother’s back porch. With knees on one stair and hands on another, I could see between each step in front of me. I could see the basement door, which was actually at ground level at the back of the house. The front yard was eight feet higher. I could see the grass slope up to the foundation, and above that I could see the old green siding of Grandma’s house. I remember looking up, and seeing more red stairs. I climbed, or rather crawled up one step at a time, looking at the drab green beyond each red board, as I pulled myself to the next landing.

Finally the back porch and a dark wood screen door appeared in front of me. I wedged myself between the screen door and back door and waited. Soon Uncle Eunice opened the door and I rolled into the kitchen. “Look who’s here!” or something to that effect, Uncle said as he picked me up from under my arms, and carried me to the front room where Grandma waited. I was set on the couch and rewarded with peanut butter fudge.

I only remember making this expedition once, but I’m told it happened several times. Grandma’s home-made fudge may have had something to do with that.