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Thursday, 18 March 2010

The Little Brown Wooden Box

By Mary B Summerlin who keeps a photostream at Flickr

Grandpa McGee died when I was five years old.
I have a few, very select memories of him.

I remember:
Sitting in the well house door eating raw peanuts. We lived on a southern farm and grew peanuts. When it was time, the whole plant was pulled up, piled on a wagon and taken to the barn. There they were piled on the ground near the well house door. Grandpa and I were picking the peanuts off the plant and putting them in a bucket. Of course, about as many went into our mouths as in the bucket. I remember Grandpa telling me not to eat too many because they would give me a belly ache.

I remember:
Walking down the garden rows with Grandpa. He would stop every so often, look over a plant, pull off two leaves – one for himself and one for me. We would walk, eat and inspect the garden.

I can still see big Grandpa and little me. I can still feel the warm feeling of being with Grandpa. I can still remember being curious and interested in what he was doing. I can feel his serenity.

I remember:
Walking on the path from the house to the barn. A wasp was on the path. It seemed to me that every way I moved to get around him, he moved that way too. I couldn’t get past. I began to cry.

Grandpa came from the barn, picked me up and over the terrible monster. He held me for a minute, put me down and we began our walk – together.

I remember:
A pantry in our house – one with many shelves and bins. My mother always kept it full of canned goods, staples and on the top shelves - special things. I loved to go into the pantry and wonder what all the things were and what they were used for.

I would stand there in the middle and slowly turn around – looking at everything. One of my favorites was a little brown wooden box. When I asked what it was, I was told that it was Grandpa’s and he kept special things in it. The answer was given in a manner that said the subject was closed. I never saw it moved.

Some years ago when my mother was in her early 80s and the pantry was really being cleaned out, my mother said, “Mary Elizabeth, do you want Papa’s old box?” Of course I did!

Now I use the little brown box to hold props for my storytelling gigs – a nesting doll, a ghost made out of Kleenex, a dog biscuit, a felt mouse, a painted stone (like a house), etc. So, the box and Grandpa are still a big part of my life.

His life and values left an early imprint on me, an impressionable young child. The little brown wooden box is my touchstone with my Grandpa, anytime I touch it I feel him near.

Grandpa McGee died when I was 5 years old.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post