Grandma’s Basement and the Spring Equinox
As a little girl, I loved grandma’s house. There was always the smell of freshly baked something in the air. The kitchen was inviting, and I found myself sitting at the table watching grandma move around the room like a master orchestra conductor. Today was a special day in holy week, a yearly celebration based on the Gregorian calendar, celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ practiced by early Christians, a tradition continued today.
We were decorating eggs, observing all the events that would make Easter anything but scary. Along with blessings of the Easter baskets on Holy Saturday, as was part of a Christian celebration, the polishing of our Sunday shoes, a new spring outfit and the lamb cake that all the kids couldn’t wait to frost. If I was younger, the egg hunting, an egg roll, with the obligatory easter bunny, would have taken place the following morning. All was good, with my observance of Easter traditions well under way. The brindled color collie, Lindy, was just close enough to be underfoot but smart enough to keep her distance as grandma did her multi-tasking dance.
I loved to help grandma in any way I could. Need me to dry the dishes? Done! Needed help folding the laundry? No problem! Need me to go into the basement to retrieve something? OMG!
Right off the brightly lit kitchen, the door to this dreaded chamber was always kept shut and never even thought about until, from grandma’s calm, a very carefree voice, this simple sentence appeared; “can you go down into the basement and get....”
Now, in general, I am not typically afraid, but when asked to open the door in the corner of the room that rarely was opened, well, it was necessary to take pause. This is where my scary story begins. I believed that door was always kept shut to keep the ghosts safely at bay with a key in the lock. My sister thought that there was a bat down there trying to escape. I, of course, had my own, scary, ideas.
I wanted so much to be grown up and please grandma and felt I just couldn’t let her down. Afraid? Me? Well...maybe just a little bit. So, slowly and gingerly I walked to the door as if I was marching to the guillotine.
What was down there, you ask? Well, if memory serves me correctly; a wringer wash machine, old dusty tools, withered and yellowed papers, hatboxes covered with dust, black & white pictures of people with stern and judgmental expressions on their faces, and even a wooden leg. Yes, a wooden leg, like something you would see out of a Peter Pan story. When we asked, the children were told a story that would make you never want to take a train away. Out of the story we found out that it was my uncle’s. Why did he need it? Was he born that way? Was he a pirate? Was it hereditary to be born with only one leg? Was my uncle the ghost in the basement looking for the now rotted portion? But my scary story and experience is not about Sam Elliott but rather my journey into the dark basement this holy Saturday.
The stairs were dimly lit, with one solo lightbulb hanging from a cord that swayed as the door was opened. Was it swinging because the ghosts were disturbed from their slumber and trying to see who would dare come down? Was it a draft from a jarred window where a wild animal broke in and was lying in wait? There was another entrance into the feared basement; could someone else be down there? Who? Why? What will happen to me if they find me? I shutter to think!
The door screeched as I turned the knob and started to take the first of 16 treacherous steps down to the dusty tomb to comply with the request to take the journey I dreaded to take.
My heart was thumping so fast I was sure it would pop out of my chest and be yet another prize for the ghost who frightened me.
Suddenly I heard rustling and cutting and shuffling. As I walked closer, I could now see a dull light and the sound of rustling, cutting and shuffling got louder. What was the noise? Should I continue moving forward? Or flee and head back to grandma to tell her that I failed? What should I do?
Finally, I mustered all the courage that I could find and decided that I would never turn back, flight was not an option. So, fight it shall be. I looked everywhere to see what could be used to defend myself. There was no old bat, no cane, nothing that would give a wallop. Then, I realized the wooden leg could be the perfect tool. I picked up the old, wooden leg that suddenly, was no longer disgusting, and lifted it up over my head, and prepared myself to defend grandma, her house, and all that I loved.
As I turned the corner, I saw an extremely well-lit workroom with rolls of colored cellophane paper, buckets of bows, toys, candy, balloons, and baskets of all sizes and shapes. To me it looked like Santa’s rented his workshop out to the Easter Bunny.
Standing in front of this Santa/Bunny’s workshop environment was no other than, my mom. She turned and looked at me with that knowing and loving smile and said, "I am so glad you're here, pick out a basket and some toys and let’s build the most beautiful Easter baskets that we can sell in the store on Easter morning.”
The wooden leg tossed aside, the feared basement no longer a scary place, I delightedly created, with my mom, baskets of all shapes and sizes. The date of Easter my change every year, but the tradition of the basket brigade is one of the fondest memories that is top of mind, every Easter, even all these years later.
The ghosts were probably still in the basement, watching knowingly that this was where I needed to be. Hanging with mom telling stories, laughing at my basket goodie selections, I learned that Easter happiness can be made in many ways and places. And the basement from that point forward has never been scary again.
But grandma always knew that!
