Caretakers

I didn’t know it at the time, but Grandma Stevens was getting me ready to take on a new role. I’m still not sure why it was me and not one of my siblings, her other grandchildren or her own children. I suppose that, in time, I may learn why. After all, there are many things that haven’t yet been revealed to me. I’m learning to be okay with that. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I loved going to my grandparents house. It was a magical place, especially when we were all little kids. I probably started going when I was a baby, but I started having memories of going when I was 4 or 5. My sister was the baby then and my older brother Will was 8 or so. My grandparents were in their 80s at that point but they seemed very old to me. Almost alien in the difference between our ages. Like we weren’t from the same world. And there was truth to that. They were born around the turn of the last century, so they had been through a lot. Both world wars, the Depression, the Cold War, the Korean and Vietnam wars. The coming of age of computers and the modernization of our society. For all I knew, they felt like they were living in a science fiction novel.

Grandpa was a bit of a mystery. If I ever heard him say more than a dozen words, I didn’t remember it. He would sit silently at the head of the long dining room table, quietly smoking and working on something with his hands. Every once in a while, he would put his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and pick up his glasses from the table to scrutinize something. I was both repulsed and intrigued by the cigarette smoke. When I had the rare chance to give him a hug, I felt the rough wool of his sweater and smelled the tobacco that seemed like it had always been there. His rough hands gave a brief squeeze on my shoulders and that was it. No lingering hugs and certainly no kisses from him.

Even though I wouldn’t describe grandma as a particularly emotional or expressive person, she was more welcoming, especially in the kitchen, where she always seemed to be working on something. The main entrance to the house let into the kitchen, so whenever we arrived, we were greeted with some tempting smell or another. The kitchen had a long island in between a counter on one side and the range and stove on the other. A set of cabinets framed the end of the room. I loved grandma’s cooking and always wondered at how fast her gnarled hands could move the knife as she chopped up vegetables or kneaded dough so it could rise under one of her colorful towels on the counter. 

Neither of my siblings had much interest in cooking and maybe that’s how I got chosen. Maybe it was just a matter of opportunity and being in the right place at the right time. That seems like too much chance, but like I said, I will see if I can ever figure that out. Especially when it’s my turn to pass on the knowledge to one of my kids or grandkids. That is a long time off in the future, so for now, the responsibility rests with me and I’ve gotten used to that. 

We had just arrived and there was the usual bustle of schlepping in bags, the screen door trapping us on the way in and then slamming shut as we went out for another load. It was chaotic, but I had grown to love it because it meant that we would be staying for a while. We even brought our cat, Louey, all the way from the city. He was a big gray and white tiger with a white spot over one eye and a black spot over the other that gave him a comical look. After yowling in his cat carrier for most of the trip, it was a relief to get him into the house and let him out. He bounded out of sight, but we knew he would find a spot somewhere and that we would see him again when he got hungry. 

Grandma was there to greet us, her gray hair done up in a tight bun and wearing a plain blue apron that must have been around forever. I noticed the variety of stains across the front, testimony to Grandma's life in the kitchen. Inevitably, when I thought of her, I thought of food. She had one chicken dish that was usually part of each visit. I wanted to cook it with her so that I could learn what made it so delicious. She enveloped me in her arms after I put down my mini-suitcase and I breathed in the scent of onions, butter, sugar and a number of other scents my developing palate couldn’t identify yet. 

“How’s my special boy?” she asked, ruffling my hair with her gentle but calloused hands.

“I’m good,” I said, looking up at her lined face and the smile waiting there for me.

“I know you are good, but how are you feeling,” she corrected.

“I’m happy. Happy to see you grandma.” I waited to see what was next.

“Why don’t you take your bag to your room and then come help me in the kitchen. I have a special project for us.” She gave me a little push in the direction of the stairs and I ran there, my bag bumping against the back of my legs. 

The old stairs creaked as I made my way up to my room. I shared it with my little sister. The twin beds were made up with the quilts turned back in a perfect 45 degree angle. I always took the bed by the window, which looked out over a substantial yard and a small pond that lay at the bottom of a gentle hill. During the summer, we would spend hours at the pond’s edge, looking for frogs or tadpoles and wading in the mucky bottom. Now that it was fall, I would have to be content with looking at it through the window and enjoying the red, orange and yellow leaves. I put my suitcase down near the dresser. Sadie was pulling a doll out of her backpack and getting distracted with the shelf of old toys and objects next to her bed. I didn’t want to keep Grandma waiting so I headed back downstairs, taking them two at a time which always drove Mom crazy.

Grandma was already working on something at one of the counters. I felt the warmth of the oven on my shoulder as I walked by. There was a small step stool in the corner and I pulled it over so that I was at the right height to work at the counter. 

“What are you working on Grandma?” 

She was mixing some kind of dough in a stainless steel bowl, her small hands stirring with confidence. There were several small bottles of spices next to her and I saw handwritten labels - cardamom, cinnamon, ginger. They were written in loopy script that looked ancient. 

“Did you write those labels, Grandma?” I asked, pointing to the bottles.

She glanced over, never losing the rhythm of her mixing. “Oh no, dear, I think it was my great grandmother who wrote those. They’ve been passed down many years, like a lot of things.”

I took this as an invitation to ask,”What else got passed down?”

“That’s why I love having you help me, Robbie. You’re such a curious boy.” She dug a finger into the dough to test the texture, using this as an excuse not to answer my question. I knew better than to push for an answer because I had made that mistake in the past. I knew that she would tell me when it was the right time. If it wasn’t and I pestered her, she would grow silent and would send me out of the kitchen, which always left me feeling hurt and sad. 

She glanced around the kitchen like she was checking for witnesses, then said, “C’mon Robbie, I need your help and I have something to show you in the pantry.” I felt my stomach do a little flop and wasn’t sure why. I got down from the step stool and she put her arm around my shoulders to lead me to the two pantry doors. Her hand was warm and I felt my nervousness ease with its touch. 

I had a vague idea that this house had been here for a long time. When we drove up I could see that the roof sagged a little. It had one of those funny windows that runs parallel with the sloping roof - a witches window I think they are called. I wanted to ask about that but part of me was afraid to hear the answer. The pantry doors looked older than the rest of the house. They were worn from being touched thousands of times. The hardware was brass that almost glowed in the kitchen light, like it might burn you if you touched it.

Grandma reached out and opened both pantry doors. Rows of shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling. I couldn’t see what was on the top shelves and wondered how Grandma could either. Usually, when I saw her get something from the pantry, she went right to it, almost like she could do it with her eyes closed. I was surprised that this time, she seemed hesitant. Before she reached for anything, she looked around again, causing that good old stomach flop to come back. A couple of the lower shelves were on sliders so they could be pulled out and she pulled one out.

“Robbie,” she said, and I noticed that her voice was low and serious, not the tone I was used to, “I know you’re a special boy and that’s why I’m going to show this to you. But you have to promise me that you will keep this between us. I know you can do that and then it will be our special thing, OK?” My heart was thudding and a thin film of sweat coated my forehead.

I stammered out, “Yes Grandma. Of course. Just you and me.”

She reached back, past the first few rows of jars and cans on the shelf and found what she was searching for, lifting it out so I could see. 

My first thought was, “Why is she keeping a jar of moths in the pantry?”, because I saw motion in the jar. But then she held it closer. My eyes widened as I realized it wasn’t moths. It was a tiny being with wings. I blinked my eyes and for a minute I thought I might faint or run screaming from the kitchen. I felt Grandma’s eyes on mine. My mouth didn’t work and I looked to her and then back to the thing (person?) in the jar. It was about 6 inches tall and gray-green. It even had on some tiny clothes that resembled a tunic. The wings shimmered gold and silver as they fluttered inside the jar. Then I realized that it was looking at me. 

As soon as our eyes connected, I had a dizzying feeling. Images flashed through my mind and I was transported. Glimpses of the past revealed my grandparent’s house as it was first built. Colors and motion were jumbled with scenes like old black and white photographs. A line of people carried wood and tools. Someone who looked vaguely familiar knelt down as a swarm of faeries circled his head. I felt warm and safe. It felt like a faerie was right in front of me and I moved my arms, reaching out, but this was still part of the vision.

“Robbie. Robbie?” I heard my Grandma’s voice like it was coming down a long tunnel. I opened my eyes and took a big stuttering breath.

“What?” was all I could manage. I saw that the faerie was now resting its wings and was leaning back against the jar with a smile on its face.

Grandma was looking down at me with a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “I think I know what just happened, Robbie, and I’m glad. That means you’re open to them and they are open to sharing with you. That’s a good sign.”

She put her arm around me and said, “Don’t worry. They can’t hurt you. In fact, they can be very helpful. I know you can’t understand it now, but they have powers we don’t understand. I have known him and his family for many years. In fact, it was my parents who first showed me the faeries when I was about your age, so I have an idea what you’re thinking.” She stopped for a minute, knowing that I would have a question.

My mouth was starting to work again. A question? I had dozens. Probably hundreds. “Did you say faerie?” I managed. “Where did they come from? Are there more than one?” I stopped there, knowing that if asked too many, Grandma would struggle to answer them. 

“They were here a long time before we were. In fact, the land where this house was built was their land and, well, my relatives didn’t know they were here when they built the house. But over time, they got to know and trust each other and now we work together. I consider them part of our family, Robbie, and I need you to do the same.” 

“Do Mom and Dad know?” I couldn’t picture either of my parents knowing about this and not freaking out. Mom didn’t even like to watch movies about creatures. She got scared and left the room. Dad was just too practical. He dealt in facts and figures. 

“I think you know the answer to that, Robbie. I can see it on your face. Normally, it would be one of my kids who I would pass this responsibility on to, but every once in a while, it skips a generation and this is one of those times. I’m showing you now so that you have time to learn. Time to get to know them and to understand how to work together. And I promise you it will be worth it.  But again, Robbie, you have to promise me that you will keep this to yourself until it’s time for you to pass it on to one of your kids.”

Hearing Grandma refer to “one of my kids” when I was still a kid myself was surreal so I just 

nodded my head, dumbfounded. 

I made that promise to her a long time ago. To learn and to take care of these remarkable beings. Grandma died many years ago, but I think of her every day and especially when I’m making something in the kitchen. I have two kids of my own now and I watch them and think about which one I’m going to take to the pantry so they can learn to be the next caretaker.