"Großmutters Haus" Hörbuch Erzählung zum Einschlafen & Träumen von Wilhelm Scharrelmann

Hello and nice to have you here. I am Rico. Stories are great. Today Mr. Scharremann tells about his grandmother and the house she and her grandfather live in. We learn from him how much he loves her. She is an important person in his life, until her death. Here the story takes a sad turn. But in its sadness, it tells beautifully. I hope you like it too. If you don't want to miss an audio book and haven't subscribed to the channel yet, then subscribe to it and activate the bell. And now have fun listening. Grandmother's house by Wilhelm Scharremann It seems to me that in the life of a child who did not know his grandmother, something irreplaceable is missing. However, my grandmother never told me fairy tales. So a grandmother, as she occurs in almost all youth stories, a crazy and fairy-tale-telling old woman, who tells the stories of Snow White, Dornröschen and Mrs. Holle in the Dämmerstunde, I have not possessed. But she also told stories, even if they were not fairytales. Stories from her life and from old times. Stories from her parents' house and from her grandparents. She would have turned 100 years old in those days, if she were still alive. And I thought of her 100th birthday in silence and gratitude. That she was a good woman is almost natural for a grandmother, so I didn't even have to mention it. We children didn't go anywhere but to her. That is also natural. Children always like to go to their grandmother. She lived in a house in the suburb and most of the time, when we came to her, she sat in a low, small room that lay down in the house and looked out onto the small courtyard, in which there stood a single tall tree, the largest I have ever seen. In front of the window, she drew geraniums and foxes in white-glazed flower pots and in between sprang a huge cactus, with spikes as sharp as pins. Nowhere in the world was it more faithful than in this room. An old pendulum clock hung on the wall, with a dial made of white porcelain. A few red roses were painted in every corner. And the small perpendicular clock, which hung behind the two weights, swung back and forth on the wall with a loud click-clack-click-clack. Next to it were four pictures, which I looked at for a quarter of an hour. They were old steel sticks in silvered, damaged frames. They represented the four seasons, each illustrated by a beautiful female figure. Strangely foreign, they looked almost solemn. They all had large, questioning eyes, all of them had their hair simply braided over their foreheads, and they looked at the viewer fully. One with an arrowhead wreath on her head, the other with a bundle of heirs in her arm, and the third with a flat basket full of grapes. The fourth sat on a coal basin and warmed her naked arms. When I looked at them, I could never agree with myself which of the four was the most beautiful. But most of all, the third one appealed to me. She had an extraordinarily serious expression on her face, which she loved to do to me. I have always swarmed for the autumn and the time of the fruits. One should think that the autumn of my life, when I reach it, once the silent swarming of my boyhood years will come to pass. But the most beautiful thing in grandmother's room was not the clock, were not the four pictures and the little lights above the sofa, nor the sofa with the black, cool damascus cover, nor the white mahogany chairs. The best thing in grandmother's room was undoubtedly grandmother herself. She was a woman in the early seventies, with soft grey eyes and a face full of innumerable wrinkles. I do not remember ever seeing her without her hood, which was made up of innumerable ruffles and tips, and which was taken care of like a little brother. Don't come to my hooves! she called every time, as soon as one approached the little cute little body, which stood on a little table in the corner of the room, under which her sundress was usually laid, which was put on, as soon as a visitor was to be expected. I have rarely heard her speak other than plain German, but it sounded gentle and friendly from her mouth, soft and soft. But the most beautiful thing I enjoyed with her were her sandwiches. She cared for the butter slices, after they had been brushed with fresh butter, to sweeten them with fine sugar. And such sugar-coated butter bread tasted better than the finest cake. Good grandmother! I have eaten some of your butter bread, and I still see you at the cupboards, after the worn-out knife-length, which had long become thin and bony from the frequent grinding, to separate a full slice from the bread. I still see the little sugar pot made of white porcelain, and I still stroke your soft hand in my thoughts, on which the blue veins lay so strangely thick. Big golden earrings hung on your earlobes, and on holidays a strangely wounded golden brooch was stuck in the colourful cloth that you had wrapped around your shoulders. A thin, fine gold ribbon was stuck on the gold finger of your right hand. It had been thin from the start, but the years had sanded it even more, so that you had to wonder if it broke. Upstairs in the house, my grandfather had his workshop. It was the largest house in the house, and on the walls lay the large stools, which were used to support the canvas. Here painted window blinds were made, as they were in old times, and today you rarely find them here or there in front of the windows. In the workshop, there was always a smell of glue and clay and colours. Often enough, I got Kasseler brown, Elfenbein black, strength and glue from the colour trade for the old man, and provided him with company when he stood in front of his watch and cleanly, stroke by stroke, painted up the chalice. Next to the workshop lay the good room. Today it would be called the salon. There were fine furniture in it, upholstery chairs and an oval sofa table with a colorful covered ceiling with a troddle at each end. A gold-plated clock hung on the wall, from which a gold-plated eagle watched the little pendulum swing back and forth. The strangest thing, however, was one corner of the house, which was completely taken over by roll-call rehearsals. Rolled together, they leaned there and waited to be unwrapped in front of the customers and looked at with bewildered eyes. From us children they had to be respected like a heap of piled-up precious treasures when we were allowed to enter this most sacred place on Sundays. But when grandfather was in a particularly good mood, I had never seen him in a bad mood, so he showed us the most precious of his roll-call rehearsals, with oil-colored landscapes, on which he painted sheep as a staff. Well-fed, peacefully rearing sheep, which were mostly posed under a few birches. These sheep especially filled me every time again with an incredible admiration for the art of my grandfather. And it is no wonder, after all, that one day I came up with the idea of performing similar glorious feats. On my mother's birthday, I also honoured her, I still see her warm smile, I still hear the stormy laughter of the birthday guests, whom my mother showed the picture, a sheep drawn with a pencil, peacefully rearing. One day, however, it was over with the traffic at the grandparents'. My grandmother was ill, and we children were not allowed to visit her for weeks. When we entered the house again, she had already died and was already lying in the coffin. The coffin was put on the floor of the house and a few supports were put underneath, which otherwise carried the laundry. The whole house smelled of the lacquer of the coffin and the green of the tree of life, which I had tied to the wall and attached to the coffin lid. Since then, I have not been able to smell a tree of life or the asphalt lacquer of a coffin without being reminded of this picture. I was so shocked that I could not say a word. It was the first time I saw a dead person. The pale, somewhat disfigured face with the closed eyes, which had often looked at me so kindly and lovingly, and the growing hands, which were now so immovable on the white ceiling, made such a deep impression on me that I felt more fear than grief. According to the custom of that time, a bowl of chlorine lacquer was placed under the coffin, whose sharp, itching smell should prevent the smell of the corpse, but in me it only aroused disgust and disgust. Was that really the grandmother who lay in the coffin in black, with white lines and spikes? How strange she looked! And instead of grief and silent remorse, I only felt clumsiness and a kind of terrible curiosity. But the repulsive, sharp smell of chlorine liqueur, which mixed with the stinging smell of the green of the tree of life and the peculiar smell of the lacquer of the coffin, aroused such a strong disgust in me that I suddenly rushed to the door and ran out, to be freed from the smell and sight of the dead. A while later I sneaked up the stairs again and flew through the windows of the front door. The dead woman lay there, still and peacefully. A few candles were lit to her head, whose yellow light beam fell on the face of the dead without movement, which made it even more waxy and strangely strange to me. So I stood there for a long time and stared through the windows of the door. I did not dare to enter the house and go into the coffin, but suddenly I was gently pushed to the side and when I looked around in disarray, I was not surprised when I saw two black-clothed corpse-bearers, of whom I had been pushed to the side, and they passed by me and went into the house. They closed the glass door behind them, knocked on the door, exchanged a few words with my grandfather and then began to close the coffin. They lifted the lid on the coffin, screwed it shut and then waited for the corpse-bearer, who came a few minutes later, to pick up the coffin. Both wings of the house door were now locked and the dead were then carried out in their coffin. All the mourners left the house and when the corpse-bearer began to move slowly, the men followed in three steps, while the women got into a few carriages, which slowly advanced with nodding horses. I stayed in the house, in which a few women from the neighborhood cleaned up the room and waited for the corpse-bearer. I was incredibly frightened and sad, as quiet and gloomy as the house was now. I slid down the stairs into the little cottage where the grandmother sat so often and when I suddenly saw her head lying here, as if she had just laid it out of her hand, I only realized that I had now lost the dead forever. I heard her say, and pushed my head crying into the cold sofa corner. I had lost what I had possessed for so long. I had lost where I was happy. Grandmother's house. Thank you for listening. If you liked the story and you are not sleeping yet, I would be happy about a thumbs up and a comment. And if you can't sleep yet, you can find another story here. See you soon!