A watermelon horizon called the house to life. The house was drenched in sunshine, sun peeking through Mamsy’s blue-checked curtains. The tulips bloomed, more like jewels than flowers. The sleeping grandchildren felt freedom beckoning them awake above fluffy pillows. The sun was like lemonade. No use being an ice cube on a lovely, lemonade day in Eye, Florida!

Mamsy! Her laugh was like a spicy glass of chocolate, and her face was eerily like a Chihuahua. Laughs had etched fine lines around her wonderful eyes. Like a butterfly, she raised her face to the morning. A Cuban scarf was laced gently on her caramel neck. The smell of breakfast rose from the stove. Omelets hissed, and Mamsy sprinkled chili pepper on hers. She was hardly the size of a fourth grader, but she was as confident as a giant on a mountain. She was singing, “I’m just as happy as a mosquito on a tomato vine, I’m just as happy as a lump of rising bread dough, I’m just as happy as a sugar-sprinkled donut, I’m just as happy as a summer bonfire, I’m just as happy as a kite-freed cloud…”

Little Kinny, the youngest grandchild, would sit on the counter while Mamsy cooked and talked. Mamsy would offer freshly cracked pistachios into her open mouth, like the child was a bird. They would cook and talk, cook and talk, cook and laugh and holler. Kinny laid eyes on the messy perfection of Mamsy’s kitchen, loving the little details—how the newspapers on the singing refrigerator were faded and fascinating, how the orchid bloomed in the sill, how the birds pecked at pinecone feeders outside, how faded the chairs and wallpaper were, the texture of a sponge, the cold feeling of a metal wooden, the prim shape of Mamsy’s toes, the clink of ice companionable lemonade-glasses, the roar of the fan, the peaceful dribble of their conversation.

The best part was when Mamsy made raspberry lemonade. How the freshly picked raspberries were wrung and squeezed, wrung and squeezed. Kinny would put on faded gardening gloves and pick the raspberries, out in the sweaty air and bees. She would bang the screen door, and there was Mamsy, singing at the top of her lungs while wringing, stirring, pouring. They would garnish glasses with raspberries, lemons, and ice. Sitting on the creaky porch swing and daintily sipping the heavenly lemonade was better than being in a café in Paris.

Mamsy had a nice, sweet-tart way of talking to children, that made Kinny feel grown up. While they drank raspberry lemonade, Mamsy told stories about Eye, Florida. The town got its name because a pioneer, crossing the river, shot his eye out with a gun once he landed here. Mamsy knew about werewolves and cats dancing in the graveyard, and the ghosts that lived in pecan trees, and the boogeymen in people’s wells, and phantoms in people’s attics. While nestled in her grandmother’s songlike words, Kinny thought, How many glasses of lemonade have been poured in the world? How many crickets and fireflies in a July night? How many raccoons and frogs singing in the July trees? How many breezes blowing from the Atlantic Ocean? How many notes in a marching band? How many turns in an old washing machine? How many miles can you travel in a ’57 Chevrolet? Kinny had only one grandmother left in the world, and she loved her more than anyone. The creaking swing sang of their love.