Pennsylavania

Wednesday morning, 9 am. Left Louisville with my sister, Jean, and my niece, Jessie. Drove to Cincinnati under gray skies, then on to Columbus under drizzle. In and out of raina and drizzle all the way to Corry PA where my Aunt Grace lives in the house I remember from childhood.

It is strange that I spent my entire childhood in La Grange Highlands, Illinois, but I feel a greater closeness, a stronger emotional connection to Corry, a place I spent time only sporadically as a

child. Jean feels the same way. My mother hated it.

We had mostly lazy times in Corry with one special event: a visit to the home my grandparents, Ray and Emilie Burr, lived in on Frederick Street.

Every time I'm in Corry, I drive by or walk by the Burr house. This time, Aunt Grace called and arranged for us to visit inside the house. Both Jean and I were nervous, excited. Will it look at all the same? Will they have ruined it?

This is the house where I did my first baking, standing on a stool beside my grandmother - a short, round woman who always wore a print dress covered by an apron. I stood beside her as she scooped flour and sugar from the bins with her hands. My job was to add little-girl pinches of soda, salt. Multiple pinches of cinnamon.

Grandma baked with fresh eggs, butter, and cream. With sky-high cholesterol, she died of her own cooking, most likely. I am only one year younger than she was when she died.

Jean, Jessie, Grace, and I toured that house. Some owner after my grandparents had tiled the entry way and carpeted the living room. The current owners have the good sense to want to put it all back to oak.

The coat tree at the entryway wis missing, as was Grandpa's desk and Grandma's piano. This is the entryway, the parlor, where my great-grandmother once lay in her casket for her wake. Although I never met the woman, I have "seen" that casket in the parlor many times, and I saw it once again on Wednesday.

The beautiful wood columns separating the parlor from the living room are intact. The living room and dining room fireplaces are as I remember. The kitchen, the place of my most visid memories, has been remodled, and though lovely, was not done to period (1902). No more butler's pantry or creaky back porch.

But standing in the kitchen, I could see that round woman sprinkling flour over pie dough.