DON'T GO DOWN IN THE CELLAR...

Grandma always said, “Don’t go down in the cellar because…” and just let the sentence trickle away.   She would never finish that sentence. No matter how much my brother and I tried coaxing her, Grandma remained mute as to why we shouldn't/couldn’t go down in the basement.  

Our feeble attempts at blandishments, compliments and bribes were met with a vague smile, as her lazy eye twirled to the outer limits.  We would try and guess why we couldn’t go down in the basement; everything from something stolen, usually from an important archeological dig in some far off land or a mummified body of an old-time gangster buried in a shadowy corner.  The countless, small rooms formed a rabbit-warren-like maze, perfect for hiding all sorts of dark and mysterious secrets.

Every year, on our summer vacation to Grandma's remote hobby farm, built in the shadow of the Canadian Shield, our speculations grew wilder and  scarier.  The last summer when we were there, me, wise beyond my years at 10 and my baby brother, juvenile at 8,  tried again to pry the reason out of Grandma.  We were surprised and astounded when she said, “All right, all right already.  I’m tired of all your years trying to pry the answer out of me, I’ll tell you why you mustn’t go down in the cellar.”  We leaned forward in anticipation, two sets of bright blue googly eyes riveted on old Grams.  Grandma started talking, her wispy old voice barely audible, “You mustn’t go down in the cellar because…” All of a sudden, Grandma stopped speaking, gasped, sucked her breath in and didn't let it out again, then toppled out of her rocking chair, dead as a mackerel!

Image courtesy of by Witthaya Phonsawat/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net