Grandma grew up in what she calls “the Old Country,” and her family didn’t move to the United States until she was a teenager. When I was a kid, I thought the Old Country was a fairy-tale kingdom. In the Old Country, Grandma said, peaches grew heavy and sweet on every tree you passed. In the Old Country, the cornflower-dotted meadows hummed with fat gold bees. In the Old Country, you could drink straight from the stream behind the house Grandma was born in, the water cold and clean and tasting of mountaintops.
After hearing Grandma’s stories, I used to think I could get to the Old Country through an enchanted door, like the kind you read about in kids’ books. If I just looked hard enough, I’d find a portal in the back of a closet somewhere, or shimmering in the forest like a soap bubble. I wanted to visit the Old Country with Grandma more than anything.
When I was old enough to realize the Old Country is an ordinary place you can get to on an airplane, I asked Mom if we could go there sometime for vacation. “Oh, honey,” she said. “Maybe one day.” Her face got that sad, tired look that happens whenever I want something that costs too much, and I never asked again.
I told Grandma what Mom had said, but she just smiled.
“You don’t need money to find the Old Country, Pepper. You can see it as well as I can, if you close your eyes and dream.”