The CellarA Story by Shannon Childhood Magic "Can we open it today, Grandma?” I ask, even though I’m sure she will say what she always says: “No, not today”. I’m not too disappointed, because I know she is going to tell me another tale. “Leprechauns don’t like to be surprised,” Grandma whispers, peering over the edge of her glasses at me, with a glint in her eye, while she’s busy mending Grandpa’s shirt. “Granndmmmaa….how would leprechauns get in the cellar? The door is locked.” She smiles at me, “They are magic and I said they can let themselves in, whenever they want.” “Why would they want to use your cellar?” I ask. “Well,” says my grandma, “sometimes they need a safe place to store their gold in between rainbows. So we have a deal. They can use my cellar; I will make sure no one disturbs them or their gold. In return, they give us extra rainbows.” “Grandma,” I giggle, “Leprechauns don’t make the rainbow, they just put their gold on the end of it. Everyone knows that!” Grandma again looks over her glasses, this time with a small frown, “How do you know that? Have you ever asked them? Because I have, and they told me: the rainbow appears after the pot of gold. It seems to me they are the ones who would know these things!” I look at the heavy door, tucked into the corner of the kitchen. It looks like it’s made of wide pieces of wood. It’s narrower than the other doors in the house and has one of those keyholes that you can see through, right to the other side. But when I tried to use a flashlight to look once, Grandma warned me I would scare away the sugar plum fairies, so I haven't tried since. Grandma has one of those old looking keys to open the door on a rusty key ring, along with a smaller key. * Today, I am helping Grandma kneed the bread dough. Since I am 8 years old now, I can cut off bits to make buns now too! Grandma tells me, “A special messenger brought me an antique bicycle all the way from Ireland." “Why do you need a bike from Ireland?” I ask. “When I was a young woman, and came to Canada, my sister and I lost each other… .” “How can you lose a sister?” “My sister went to another country and I didn’t know where.” “That must have been sad.” “It was, but we found each other again, remember Aunt Alice?” I remember Aunt Alice visiting; she talked verrry funny. Grandma tells me the story of Aunt Alice learning to ride a bicycle when they were about my age. I notice her eyes are all shiny, like she might cry, but she is smiling too, so it’s okay. Grandma says a gargoyle brought a bicycle to her from her sister. But gargoyles turn to stone when the light hits them, and this makes them grumpy, so we can’t open the door today. * In the end, all the stories lead to the same conclusion every time: we can’t open the cellar door today, because some magical creature has taken refuge and must not be disturbed. As I get older, the stories change a bit. The creatures, like the gargoyle, bring odds and ends that Grandma wants more often. A photograph, a pin, the old bicycle. I play along; the cellar must not be usable for some reason, so my grandmother started making up stories. She seems to love telling me them. It becomes a game, of sorts, with me humoring her, as she used to entertain me when I was small. * I’m back home from University, for her funeral. Laughter and tears mix, as we all tell stories about our beloved, and sometimes silly, matriarch. “So, what’s really up with the cellar?” I think to ask. “What cellar?” my uncle asks. “Behind the narrow, heavy door in the kitchen that’s always locked.” “There’s no cellar there.” “Yes there is. Grandma always told me about it.” My uncle, realizing which door I mean, gives me my grandmother’s keys, rusty key ring and all. I pause for a moment, realizing I’ve never seen anyone but her in possession of these keys. I slide the skeleton key into the old brass key hole and slowly turn. The door opens silently and I peer inside to see a tiny broom closet. My eyes well up; there is no cellar. My uncle puts his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head. "I thought you knew; Mom just kept her old junk and cleaning supplies in here. She made up the stories because you threw such a tantrum the first time she told you that you weren’t allowed in.” Losing the champion of my childhood wonder hits me all at once. Clutching the keys to my chest I start to sob. “What’s the small one for?” I ask, holding out the keys on the ring. “I don’t know.” I search the closet with still burning eyes and locate a very small steamer trunk in the far corner. Getting to my knees, I insert the key, which, unlike the closet door, is a little sticky. After a few seconds, the lock clicks and I open the chest. An envelope, with my name written in a pretty, but simple, script, has been set on the top. Under are a scattering of seemingly random vintage, antique or just plain old, objects. Riffling gently through the chest, my eyes are drawn to a deck of handmade playing cards. Each card is painted with a colorful mythical creature. They are all here: leprechauns, gargoyles, sugar plum fairies, unicorns, ogres… all of them. I take note of a charm bracelet with a bicycle charm still attached and a yellowing photograph of a young family standing in front of a wood farm house, amongst all the other treasures Grandma had spun her tales around. In the letter, my grandmother asks me to care for our history. There, written in her hand, is the history of my family, as told by the objects she carefully collected over a lifetime. © 2017 ShannonAuthor's Note
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Added on May 7, 2016Last Updated on January 8, 2017 Author
ShannonCanadaAboutI like to explore the world through the human experience, at once both varied and singular. Reading, writing and meeting people makes one's world larger. I enjoy connecting with people, learning.. more..Writing
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