Growing up, I was fortunate to know and love both sets of grandparents as well as two great-grandmothers and one great-grandfather. We lived within walking distance of my mother’s parents and Big Mommy (Grandpa’s mother); and our house was about 15 minutes from my dad’s parents and grandparents, who lived on my beloved Galley Street. So many of my favorite stories involve my grandparents. Their positive influence on my life, even now, is remarkable.

Today, on this gray and drizzly Sunday morning, I’m reminded of Grandma Noplis and her cabinet filled with outdoor dishes.

In Hazard, Kentucky in the 1970s, we didn’t have many places to shop for nice toys. Amazon was not an option. My mother’s parents were careful with their finances. Grandma sewed much of her wardrobe and worked as a school cafeteria lady long after Grandpa retired from the coal mines.

While visiting their house on winter days, I read or played with paper dolls, which I cut carefully from Sears and JC Penney catalogs. Occasionally, Grandma would subscribe to McCall’s magazine, and I was allowed to trim Betsy McCall and her adorable outfits from the colorful paper doll page in each issue.

On days warm enough to go outside, though, Grandma encouraged it. Her house was tiny and meticulously clean, and she was often cooking, cleaning, or sewing. My sister and I were underfoot; but the green slopes of Orchard Heights, where her house perched, provided a safe playground.

Before we trooped out the backdoor and onto the cement patio, Grandma allowed us to raid the cabinet to the left of her stove. This little side cabinet was filled with outdoor dishes. These were not matching sets of melamine purchased for outdoor dinner parties. No, these were dented pans, pots with scorched bottoms, chipped plates and bowls, battered wooden spoons, jelly jars without lids, empty plastic butter tubs, and an array of warped forks and spoons. These were dishes Grandma had squirreled away for her grandchildren.

We piled our outdoor dishes into the largest pot and carried them outside. The short cinder block retaining wall served as a wonderful countertop. My sister and I gathered clover, onion grass, and wild strawberries. We sifted dirt through a rusted sifter. We prepared feasts fit for kings. A cast-iron drainage grate in the side yard was our stovetop. We served up fancy salads and delectable mud pies, steering clear of Grandma’s clean sheets which billowed from the clothesline like sails in the wind.

Even on days like today, with its monochrome sky and intermittent drizzle, we would have been outside, scouring Orchard Heights for the perfect ingredient to garnish our creations.

Although my granddaughter is only 6-months-old, I find myself considering my kitchen, wondering which drawer or cabinet will be in easy reach for me to stash and store her outdoor dishes.