I remember Grandma's lilacs and the word "Howdy" written in cursive at the top end of her sidewalk, how the clean, warm smell from the laundry vent greeted each visitor, there for a "second lunch" of leftover spaghetti and chocolate chip cookies. (We lived right down the dirt road from her and would often tell her we hadn't had lunch yet just so we could eat her cooking. We told her this without thinking about how it might reflect on mom. When you are young, you don't think about those kinds of consequences.)
Grandpa had an enormous garden and would tend it as Grandma's back never did well with the work it required. He'd bring his harvest in, and she would can and can and can. Peaches, green beans, stewed tomatoes, pears and apricot. The two worked well together, meeting each other at the intersection of their strengths, and filling in where one was weaker. They were evenly yoked.
I will write more about the ranch one of these days because it is the kind of place that has grown beyond simply being a location from one's childhood. Formative. That's the word. That place was formative.