They had an after-church gathering at their house one Sunday and I was fascinated by the way the food was presented in fancy dishes and served buffet style from a sideboard. I remember someone asking Mrs. Walker where her husband had gotten off to.
"He's probably at the buffet building sideboards on his plate," she answered. I wasn't sure what that meant so my dad later explained it was like having a wagon with wood rails along the side so you could pile things higher.
We sat in their parlor on red velveteen couches with carved legs and arms. Crystal chandeliers twinkled in the dim lighting of the room as we ate our food and communed with one another.
Their house was filled with family heirlooms that looked to be from the "roaring 20s" and treasures from their travels abroad. Things they had collected mid-life when they were around 40. Mr. Walker took us on a tour of his garage where, hanging on the wall was a helmet from World War I and other mementos of days gone by. They would have been born in the 1800s around the same time as my own grandparents who lived out of state and we saw rarely. The Walkers had no children so they adopted us as a surrogate family.
I had foolishly worn my watch out to play and the band broke off. C.D. repaired it so that I could wear it like a pin attaching it to a gold Fleur de Lis broach. He presented it to me as a gift one Sunday at church. Having lived through the Great Depression, they learned to repurpose and reuse everything. Nothing was wasted.
How I wish I had thought to ask them about their lives, their travels, their experiences before it was too late.