This is the road to my grandma’s house.
Hegg’s Racetrack is what the locals called it. The Hegg family drove whatever speed they wanted, kicking up a thick wake of never-ending dust.
Her tiny house was only two miles from my parents farm, but it felt like visiting another world. Everyday objects weren’t quite the same—but I didn’t mind. It felt like we were playing house.
Instead of a faucet, a hand pump in the kitchen sink.
Turning up the stove meant throwing another log onto the cookstove fire.
And in case I needed to use the washroom in the middle of the night, grandma handed me a dish with a lid on it. I stared at it, flummoxed—what was I supposed to do with it?
Still hungry after supper one night, I begged for more fish sticks, but couldn’t finish them. Grandma pushed herself away from the kitchen table and beelined it straight to the front door. I ran behind—had I upset her? She scraped the plate with a flourish, fish sticks flying into the bushes by the front steps. I buried my head in the folds of her skirt, so ashamed. She shook her head with a knowing smile. My punishment, another hug.
This is my last memory of her at the house.
Show Full
It’s been almost fifty years since I’ve been back here. Back to this house.
I meet my cousin Todd who’s agreed to show me around. He’s full of stories. As we pass under ancient apples trees, I learn my grandpa planted them during the Great Depression, with seeds purchased from a starving man trying to feed his own family. The house itself was originally a one room schoolhouse, a fact I know. My cousin tells me my father went school here as a child. I can feel the weight of my ancestors in this place.
We finally step inside.
There is her stove. There is the old hand pump. There is her sewing machine. It all comes flooding back.
Her things are here, but she is still gone.
Show Full
The house used to be spotless. Now, flies crawl over the things she left behind. The curtains she made hang in shreds across her prized picture window, installed by my uncle so she could watch the sun go down. Even now, it’s spinning its golden light across the living room.
I suddenly realize how late it’s getting.
Show Full
I have a vivid memory of lying face down on the floor, close to the parlor stove for warmth. I stare at the pattern in the linoleum, daydreaming as usual, making up stories. Were they daisies—or maybe little stars? I settle on a burst of fireworks.
Show Full
It’s getting dark—shadows start to invade. I know it’s time to go. but I feel a pull—like I’m leaving something behind.
It’s faint, but I can still feel her in this house, in the yard, and across the darkening landscape. Like she has been sitting here in silence all this time, quietly waiting for me to return. Waiting for me to throw another log onto the cookstove fire and come for a visit to grandma’s.
Show Full
All photography | Montana Scheff
Shot on location | Grandma Scheff’s house, Mahnomen, MN
Show Full