A quote: “Every crag and gnarled tree and lonely valley has its own strange and graceful legend attached to it.” ~~ Douglas Hyde
I’ll start with a story …
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Miss Dora is the last stop on the route, several miles past the town proper where the road loses its center line and her driveway is gravel.
Sun’s still up but the porch is gloomy. Carrying the meal bag, I raise my hand to knock when the door opens.
“You’re not Ray,” the voice from the tiny, wizened figure in the doorway is surprisingly strong.
“Miss Dora, Ray couldn’t come today. I’m Ray, Jr.”
Her eyes narrow looking me up and down. “What’s happened?”
“I’m sorry, dad’s sick. I’ve come instead.” Since mom passed, Dad has really taken to delivering meals to old folks and shut-ins.
Dora’s eyes widen, a smile, and the door opens. “Well come on in, Junior. Let’s see how well your daddy taught you.”
It’s a disquieting jumble of styles. Collecting for the sake of collecting? I place containers on a table piled with papers, crowds of ceramic gnomes stare at me from bookshelves. I turn and start as she’s right behind me.
“Junior, I sure miss your dad. I made something special for him. Tonic.” Dora grins, shoves a mason jar filled with what looks like muddy water into my hands. “He’ll be needing it soon.”
Her smile widens. Aren’t her teeth just a little too pointy? I edge around her, “No worries, ma’am.” I get the front door open and she grabs my arm. Hard.
“Be sure to tell Ray I miss him. I’ll know if you don’t.”
I can’t remember how I got down the gravel drive, but I’m now on the highway looking down at my arm where her handprint is turning purple.
I throw the jar out the window. Dad’s never coming here again. Even if I have to lock him in the basement.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license
We called her Grandma Stella. She wasn’t actually our grandmother, but because both of our grandmothers lived across the country, she’d sort of adopted us as substitute grandchildren.
I still remember going over to her place after school, how she’d open the door and out would come warm air rich with the scent of fresh gingerbread cookies, or lemon tarts, or German chocolate cake. She’d shoo us in and while we were eating, she’d tell us stories of how things were when she was our age, stories of riding in the rumble seat of an old-fashioned car, or having to place a call through the operator because the tiny rural phone company didn’t have direct dialing, or having to stick your arm into the oven of the old wood-burning stove to know it was the right temperature.
Then came the day when we went to her house and the door didn’t open. After a few uncomfortable minutes we knocked, but there was no answer. We looked at one another, wondering what we should do — and finally decided to go to a neighbor and ask if something had happened to — we quick had to remember that to a stranger we should refer to her as Mrs. Ferguson.
That was how we learned that she’d been taken to the hospital that morning, a little after we would’ve left for school. For the next several days we listened for every crumb of information on. her condition, and then the bad news came — she’d had a stroke, and she’d never regained consciousness.
It was only at the funeral that we learned why she’d been so eager to be a substitute grandmother for two children whose family was scattered from coast to coast. She’d had only one child, a son, and he’d gone off to war and never come back. So there’d be no grandchildren for her — except the found family she might make.
Now I am growing old, and my childhood is as far away from the present as World War II was from those childhood days. I’d love to brighten the days of a child or three in the community — but these days one must be very careful, lest such actions be seen in the worst possible light.
So different from the trusting days of my childhood.
Cameron says: Grandma and I did not have a loving relationship. I was the youngest of the kids and the only one who was ever treated coldly by her. I tried learning why only to be rebuffed so by the time I was twelve, I’d given up.
From then on, I found other things to while my family was forced to visit her. But one night, there was an old woman knocking at the door. She stared intensely into the house as she asked to be invited in. But what I saw was not human. I moved towards the door, hearing grandma’s scream of fright as she begged me to stay back. But I ignored her and stood between the house and the creature that was staring at me in pure, primal hatred.
“Nullum locum hic habes” I growled, the words coming to me as if through a long-forgotten memory. “You have no place here. Begone.” The creature shrieked and disappeared into the night.
Grandma looked at me in shock. “It was passed onto you,” she whispered. “I was hoping I was wrong.”
We never really got along but for the rest of her life, we were more respectful to each other.
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