Treasures

He had always thought the old bungalow, squatting dark and low at the end of the block of two-story frame houses, gave the appearance of a period at the end of a sentence. Peonies, bowing low from the weight of their flowers, formed a green banner spotted with white and pink blossoms around the base of the home. A sand colored concrete porch sagged gently, having sunk over the years into the soft earth.

He came down the steps, slowly placing one bare foot down on the step below, to be joined in slow motion by the other foot. His frail hand, whitish gray and crisscrossed with blue veins, gripped the railing tightly, eased, and gripped again as his bent figure moved down the steps. A faded navy cardigan sweater, its sleeves tattered and ragged at the cuffs, was pulled closely around his hunched shoulders.

A freshly cut lawn sloped away from the front of the house and down to the street. Furniture, tools and odds and ends were set about the wide expanse of grass on both sides of a narrow sidewalk that led to a curb. From each item, a bright lime green price tag twisted and spun as the breeze blew across the yard. The old man drifted amongst the items for sale like a thin wisp of smoke lazily moving in still air. The blue eyes played across each item pulling memories to the surface, and then letting them sink back into the void. An ancient bassinette tilting precariously on three wheels emitted the soft sounds of an infant’s laughter. A casting reel ratcheted furiously as a fish caught long ago pulled against the line. There was a thin metallic tick sounding from a metal box holding old shoe repair equipment, a Regulator clock lying on top of a dresser, chimed the hour, and a rocker creaked as though in movement. All of these sounds moved in and out of his thoughts as he shuffled by.

He sat in the rocker and picked up a tiny stool that was on the ground beside him. His hands caressed the rough wood and he remembered it being built a long time ago. The weathered wood had come from a small knoll beyond a pasture behind the farm. The picture of the two rutted tracks cutting across a rolling meadow and flowing up into the trees appeared in his head and his thoughts carried him up the path to the trees. In his mind’s eye he could see the sun shining brightly as the wind rippled the grasses giving the illusion of rollers upon an emerald sea.

He remembered how small his hand had been wrapped within the big man’s fist as they walked to the woods, and the big brown dog that bounded beside them. Large hands swung him into the air and on to the back of Maggie, one of the pair of black Percheron draft horses that were tethered to a tree. Axes hacked and wood creaked as trees were felled, attached to the harness of the team of horses and dragged down the hill to the mill. He could feel the clomping of the heavy hooves as they thundered the earth dragging the load behind them.

Then a memory emerged of him sitting on the stool and facing the corner because he had done something wrong. An angry woman’s voice came muffled to him from somewhere far off. The woman’s sharp retort came again and he remembered why he was in the corner.

Elvin came to mind, and he remembered trading a pen knife to him for a whole string of firecrackers. They had been in the playground adjacent to the school and were looking for an ideal place to light off the string of fireworks, when his gaze came upon the school outhouse. The hot July sun seemed to light up the small frame structure surrounded by the colorful hollyhocks. Elvin carefully held open the door while he had lit the string of firecrackers and tossed them down into the dark hole. Then they both sprinted back behind some lilac bushes to watch the show. In horror they watched as the teacher came out of the schoolhouse and went straight into the outhouse. Two loud noises followed one another in quick succession. First there was a series of loud popping explosions joined by a scream. Wide eyed and with mouth agape, he watched from the cover of the bushes as the teacher burst out of the outhouse tumbling head over heels with her pantaloons around her ankles. It was then that smoke began billowing out from around the edges of the door. Dried paper in the bottom of the pit must have caught fire, and soon the dry wood walls broke into leaping yellow and orange flames engulfing the entire building and burning it to the ground.

The old man smiled and let the memory fade into the grass that prickled about his toes. Setting the stool aside, he rose unsteadily from the rocker and moved between a kitchen table and a leather recliner, which put him in front of an intricately carved Eastlake umbrella stand. Perched on the seat of the umbrella stand was an old steamer trunk. When he raised the curved lid and peered inside, he caught a glimpse of a white lace gown with pale purple ribbon woven into the hem. A breeze blew softly across his face and the memory emerged of swirling white and dark shapes gliding and whirling about him as he turned about uncertainly. Suddenly she was there in front of him, her eyes laughing and her whispers becoming puffs of words on air breathed into his ear. They moved in concert across the gleaming floor beneath the glittering mirrored ball suspended from the ceiling. The orchestra rose and fell in pitch as they rode the music in each other’s arms, their feet moving soundlessly above the glistening wood floor. His heart beat furiously and he stared in wonder at her face as he felt the thrill of falling in love with her all over again.

Then the whirling figures became the faces of doctors and nurses coming in and out of his vision, their lips parting to form black holes mouthing words that made him afraid. The lid slammed shut and he shuffled backwards against the leather chair. The moment passed and dissolved away as motes of dust floated above the chest.

He walked to a roll top desk whose splintered sliding cover was wedged and stuck at a point midway in the rolled up position. Reaching inside across the surface of the desk, he grasped the gilded handle of a small drawer in the back and pulled it open. Delicately, he pulled a heart-shaped stone from inside. Its dull red surface fit snugly and coolly in his hand. She had placed it in his hand and closed his fingers about it with her own small hands. "This will bring you back to me," she had said before they parted. He then remembered the jarring vibration in his arms as his thumbs squeezed the triggers of the M-60 machine gun. The deck of the huge ship was at a forty-five degree angle as it plowed through the turbulent water. Twisting metal shrieked and men screamed as the massive frame began to slip beneath the cold gray surface. Strapped to the machine gun, he recalled firing again and again at the planes as they strafed the sailors floating in the water. The gun jammed and suddenly the ship was rolling. The webbing holding him to the gun gave way and he slid down the deck into the cold gray gloom. His memory took him no further and the old man was back amidst the furniture on the lawn.

Replacing the stone, the man stooped beside a wooden crate filled with rocks and pieces of drift wood. His hand settled on the rusted handle of an old frying pan. Half of the pan was corroded away, making it useless for cooking. He hefted the piece in one hand and looked long at the pitted surface. They had retrieved it from an old lime kiln in Upper Michigan. The last family to have lived in the settlement before it slipped into ruin was her grandfather’s family. They had struggled to eke out a living for several years after the kiln had shutdown. As he held the skillet, he could almost smell the bacon frying and sizzling. He still remembered how life up there was described to him by her father. The far end of the rough hewn cabin held a heavy black stove that would spread warmth throughout the little room. Parts of the iron surface would glare red hot and steam always seemed to rise steadily from the spout of the large metal coffee pot at the rear of the stove. As the old man day dreamed, he could hear the jumble of voices as they converged in the small space of the cabin. There was laughter and music as a squeeze box played out lively songs.

After a time, there just wasn’t work anymore around the kiln, and food had started to become scarce. When they had thought life could take no more from them, smallpox ran through their camp and took many of the children with it. The settlement was abandoned and the buildings rotted and crumbled. The frying pan had been found by him years later, rusting atop the corroded surface of the stove in an open area where the cabin had once stood. Recent rain had formed a puddle in the pan and weeds grew up between the floor boards around the stove. It had been very quiet then, except for the crickets in the field playing their music to a dying summer sky.

He set the pan back alongside the crate of rocks and moved back to the rocking chair and sat down heavily. Out of the drawer of an end table next to the rocker, the man pulled out a weathered blue dog collar. The tags jingled as he moved them, almost as if the dog had just shaken his head right next to him. He smiled and stroked the soft fur on the crown of the dog’s head as he watched the ambulance attendants carry the body out of the house and down to the waiting vehicle. Their movements were slow and unhurried.

The old man sat and rocked for a long time. A small boy burst out of the front door of the bungalow and was quickly followed by a young woman in a long beige raincoat. “Gray Grampa, Gray Grampa,” the boy shouted and pointed to the rocker. The woman picked up the little boy and kissed his cheek. “No sweetie, Gray Grampa gone away.” She hugged the child close to her and carried him down the walk to the large black car. She buckled him in his car seat and turned around to face the lawn covered with furniture. Straightening the Estate Sale sign stuck in the ground by the curb, she felt her face flush with tears. She would miss him so much. Then she looked back across the grass to the house and wondered why old people kept all this junk. The wind blew softly against the chair and it rocked to and fro as she drove away.

My wife and I have lived year-round for four years in the quiet countryside near Juddville. Besides her and I, we have Buck and Ted, KoKo, Oscar, Fluffy, Elizabeth and Annie Mae. We haven’t named any of the honey bees yet, except for that one that stung me last year. He has a name!