June 14th is not only Flag Day when our country honors our nation’s flag and what the Stars and Stripes mean to our history and our present day. We still have freedoms, although some are threatened, it seems, because many have sacrificed all they had, their dreams and their very lives for the country they loved. Some today still take up that challenge. We thank them.
But, it’s a special day for our family. It was my grandpa’s birthday, always celebrated with strawberry shortcake and a family get-together. My Grandpa was special. I’ve written about him several times.
I’ve just completed a short story for the Space Coast Writer’s Guild athology called “Secrets.” It’s partially a story similar to the fourth book in my Seaside Saga collection, but is fictional. The children in the story never knew their grandfather, but this little story shows the relationship between little girls and their grandpa’s similar to mine. Enjoy the read.
What’s in the Box?
Betty Whitaker Jackson
Grandpa and I were puttering in the garage. He was trying to find a picture hook to hang one of Grandmother’s paintings, and I, in my patient wanderings, asked, “Grandpa, what’s in that big wood box?” It was buried under moving boxes labeled “living room,” “bedroom three,” “odds and ends,” and other such things that came from Great Grandma’s house when they sold it. She died three years ago. So did our mommy and daddy. On the other side of the storage shed, boxes labeled Simeon hug the wall. Those are things from my parents’ house. Grandpa had to sell it, so Joey, Stella, and I, Suzanne, live here. I’m eight, Stella’s a year older, and Joey is five.
There’s lots of their stuff in Grandpa’s workshop that’s not his, and he hasn’t touched many of the boxes. Maybe it’s because there are too many memories (I’m thinking that), or because Grandmother has not nagged him enough. She does lots of nagging. (He calls it suggesting).
“Oh, that, Suz?” It’s my grandmother’s puppet theater. Shoulda got rid o’ all that stuff. Just procrastinatin’.”
“What’s that mean?” My eight-year-old curiosity’s aroused. I kept a list of words I didn’t know yet. That would make the list in my secret notebook I hide under the mattress.
“Oh, means stuff I gotta do somewhen…no, that’s not even a real word …don’t be gettin’ ideas. It’s like I’ll get to it someday. Not a priority.”
“Huh? Don’t know that word either.”
“Ah, means it’s not somethin’ I gotta do right now, like findin’ a dumb picture hanger. I know I’s got some in onea deez little drawers. Jes never got ’round to labelin’ ’em like I shoulda. Dat’s what procrastinatin’ means, like puttin’ stuff off, and priority means it’s not at the top o’ the list of gotta do’s.”
“Don’t suppose,” I’m asking as an eight-year-old who wants to know just everything all at once, and that at once means just this minute, “ya could open it up for me. I’ve never even seen a puppet theater before.”
“Well, could, I s’pose, but your grandmother needs a dang picture hook. Tell ya what. You help me look in deez- here draw’s and maybe we can get to yer little project. How’s dat, Sweet Pea?”
I love doin’ things with my grandpa. He and Grandmother take care of us now since our mommy and daddy died. I’m pretty sure my daddy would have unpacked all these boxes and broken ’em down and flattened the boxes and put ’em out at the curb right away. He was always busy making things neat and organized. Grandpa, not so much.
So I helped Grandpa and I made the great discovery in the very first drawer I opened.
“Aha! Now I know why I keep ya around, Sweet Pea,” he said, as if we had anywhere else to go. We didn’t. We’ve been here a year already.
We hung Grandma’s picture. It’s a painting she did from a photograph of our old house by the ocean, and the tree I used to climb, and our little dog’s house, and she even put us kids in the yard. I love seeing that painting. It is how things were, all bright with sunshine and laughs and the six of us together.
Life’s just not the same. And we had to give Tippy away. Grandmother hates dogs.
Grandmother likes things quiet. We have to use good table manners, and we don’t talk much when we’re eating. Grandmother never asks each one of us, around the table, “How was school today?” or “What are you reading now?” or “What would you like to do after dinner?’ or things we used to share as a family. It’s more like she leaves us alone and tells us stuff like, “Pick up your things,” or “Joey, you left your towel on the chair over there.” She points to where he sleeps at night—”You know better. Where does it go after you take your shower?”
“Sorry, Grandmother. I’ll try to be better, I really will, but you told me to get to bed, so I thought that was more important right then.”
“Well, you must take care of the day’s events before you think about waiting until tomorrow. Tomorrow is never promised. You, of all children, should know that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, defeated once again in being a grown-up perfect person when he was only five.
I, on the other hand, was learning the hard lesson of speaking only when I was spoken to and careful about doing everything as she said ten times a day, “by the book.”
I was told to be like my older sister, the perfect one. She’s almost ten and Miss Grow-Up-Really-Fast so we could all stay together after Mommy and Daddy left for Miami and were in coffins in the church three days later.
I was five, then, like Joey, and Stella was seven. I know I wasn’t perfect at seven. I’m not anywhere near it at eight. But Stella is amazing. She told the DCF lady we were going to be together, and we couldn’t go to different foster parents. We just couldn’t. And she won.
Well, sort of. Here we were at Grandmother and Grandpa’s house, or rather their double-wide. Stella and I shared a tiny room with no place for stuff. That’s why we don’t have anything but a few outfits and our bookbags.
Joey sleet on the pull-out in the office, and we didn’t have a yard. But, Stella reminded us, we were still together and we’d better make the best of it or we’d go someplace worse.
“Grandmother,” I try to pick the right moment to ask, “Can you tell me about Grandma Great’s puppet theater?”
“Should have thrown that thing out years ago. Why do you want to know?”
“I would like to see it. It’s in a big wooden box, buried in the garage.”
“Hiram,” she says, as he straightens the painting one last time, “you need to get busy out there before it becomes beastly hot or a hurricane floods the place.”
“I know, Hilda, I know, but you keep me pretty busy lookin’ for picture hooks and doin’ dis and tdat when ya tell me ta jump, or carry, or fix dis, or find a danged picture hook!”
Grandpa’s good. Even I could see that. She ordered him around like, and he tooks his orders well and tried, really tried, to please her and keep the peace.
He’s tool little Joey under his wing and spent as much time as he could without getting into trouble, keeping him, especially, busy and out of Grandmothers hair, so to speak.
So, we keep secrets.
He got us all fishing poles, and he took us to the canal near the trailer park, and we fished. It’s how he gots us out of the house, and Grandmother had the place all to herself so she could keep her little palace, as she called it, straightened up and in order in case company came. Nobody did but Miss Debra from the Department of Child and Family Services. She drove up in her black van, carried a notebook, and looked in the refrigerator, asked if we were eating and sleeping on schedule, and how we were doing in school.
Usually, we were in school when she came, Grandpa told us. But last time. Grandmother told us to go to our room and shut the door. We did, but Stella listened, her ear to the door. That’s how we know what they talked about. By the way, doors in a double-wide are pretty flimsy. (That’s another word I learned. They slide closed and there’s a gap sound can get through. We didn’t really have doors like in a real house.
Seems everything was fine on that visit. We hoped it stayed that way. It’s like Miss Debra was trying to find a way to move us again, but that would just make her job harder, wouldn’t it? I wonder about things like that. So, we decided the known was better than the unknown and tried to always be on our best behavior. We knew what the shelter was like; we were there three days after we knew what orphans were.
Next time we went fishing with Grandpa, I asked him again about the puppet theater. He told me his mother brought that box all the way from England when World War II was going on. It was very dangerous there. She didn’t have a suitcase, so she put everything inside the puppet theater and her father, my great grandfather, built a box around her favorite thing, that puppet theater. Inside were her clothes, her Bible, her pictures, and four puppets. As Grandpa tells it, he never saw it opened. When she died, they just moved the crate to our parents’ house, and now, here it was. I just had to see the puppets.
“When she got to Ellis Island where immigrants had to go, they did open it and she took her clothes and Bible and pictures out of it. They gave her a box for her belongings and then they nailed it shut again. She had to move it out right away. How did she do that? I wondered if I could do that all by myself!
“She married my dad shortly after. Dey’d been writin’ letters ta each other. Dat’s one o’da reasons she came t ’Merica. He pr’obly did help her wid her treasure. Kinda worshiped da groun’ she walked on. Who know? Guess it was pretty dangerous comin’ ’cross da ocean too. Joey, someday when you’re older, I’ll tell ya about U-Boats and how dey fought wars den, but you don’t need ta know dat now. It’d give ya nightmares. No need fer dat.
I remember what happened and what we said as if it were yesterday. I relive the story in my memory place.
“Anyways, she kept dat ol’ t’ing. I ne’er saw her open it when I was growin’ up. An’ da movers jes brought ever’thing here after yer parents died, and here it is. Can’t put my car in da garage, but yer parents’ stuff is safe. Someday it’ll all be yers. Your grandmother and I have jes ’bout ev’thing we needs ’ceptin’ space, I guess, but we’s thankful, so very thankful, and I’m lovin’ haven’ you younguns around. Yer keepin’ me busy, ’n’ I like that better’n’ jes sittin’ aroun’ like it wuz ’fore you come to live wid us. Life’s good.
“Now, I ain’t gonna promise ya nothin’, but I’ll try ta get ya that puppet theater outta der. Den ya all’l have somet’in’ of your great- gran’ma’s ta occupy yer time. Would ya like dat?”
“Oh, yes, Grandpa, yes. More than anything. That’ll be fun. I never had real puppets. And I really can’t wait to see it.”
Problem is, we’ll hafta keep it from yer grandmother. I kinda told her I’ll start getting’ ridda stuff out here. But mosta it belonged to your parents. I’m thinkin’ ya might want somma it someday. ’Course I won’t be aroun’ when yer settin’ up housekeepin’, but now dat ya know ’bout de puppet theater, we can start by openin’ dat one thing. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe, Joe, the handiman who does odd jobs fer us old folks, can help me. When ya see him ridin’ aroun’ in his golf cart, give him a holler and tell him I need ta see him. He’ll help me unpack it and we’ll see what’s still inside, ’K?”
I remember that the next day when Joey and I were riding our bikes around the development. Stella was busy helping Grandmother make chili for supper. She’s learning to cook so she can help out, but she says Grandmother doesn’t cook like our mommy did. Mommy never used a recipe. She just knew how to make everything by opening the pantry and taking out just what she needed to make dinner.
Grandmother uses recipes, and she has to put all the ingredients in little bowls before she ever starts to make something. Seems to Stella that uses too many dishes she’ll have to wash later, and it takes for, her term, “Gosh-darn forever.” We all know, but never tell her (it’s our secret) that it never turns out to taste the same as Mommy’s a “dash of this and a little of that” cooking. Just one more thing I miss.
I’m starting to forget Mommy. That’s not a good thing.
Anyway, that day we spotted Mr. Joe and invited him to the garage. He said he’d be right there. He had to fix somebody’s mailbox. Some kids had come by in a car and used baseball bats to knock over people’s mailboxes, just for fun. What they didn’t know was that the police have their license number, and the town’s judge will probably make them come by and repair the damage. That happened before. They didn’t like having to dig another hole for Grandpa’s and mix cement, and make it all the right height, and fix it if it didn’t pass Mr. Joe’s inspection. But now, they’re at it again.
Guess it was a different bunch of kids, or they didn’t get the license numbers this time. Mr. Joe had to do the job himself. But, we believed him when he said he’d come by to Grandpa’s house. We didn’t tell him why.
A couple of hours later, he came. Grandmother was upset because she had dinner almost ready, and her schedule had to be followed to the “T.” We didn’t tell her why Mr. Joe was there, just that Grandpa needed a little help in the garage. We hoped she was too busy watching her biscuits to see Grandpa and Mr. Joe struggling to move six boxes out of the way, then get a crowbar, and open the big wooden box.
And there it was. A red stage with a dusty, dark blue curtain, gold tassels and everything. And where the hole was on top to drop the puppets to the stage, hung four puppets!
“Grandpa, Grandpa!” Squealing with delight, “Grandpa, they look just like us! Look! This one is Stella. How’d your mother know Stella would have brown curls and had a red dress just like this one? How did she know?
“And, Grandpa, you said she made these how many years ago?”
“Prob’ly ’bout eighty or ninety. Long before you kids came along, dat’s fer sure. Look at the little boy. He looks jes’ like Joey. He’s even got freckles, unless, lemme get a better look. My eyes is not so good any mo’. Yeah, dey’s freckles a’right, jes like Joey’s got.”
“And Grampy, this one looks a little like me, dontchathink?”
“Sure ’nuff does. You gots a blue dress likin’ dat. Ya wore it last Lord’s Day, right?”
“Yup. And Mommy used to braid my hair like that. Grampa, was your mama like a prophet or somethin’? An’ even better, how’d she know Tippy looked just like this little fellow?”
“Ya know. Maybe God did tell ’er you’d find it someday. He knows ev’thing, ya know. Maybe He made dis whole thing happen. Don’t know about da prophecy, thing, chile, but maybe God knew someday you’d be here, right now, lookin’ at her favorite thing in the whole world. She knew it had to come to America wid her. She jes’ knew it.”
“Gran’pa, look here.” On the bottom of the box, under the theater, she put a folder. Wonder if the people who made her unpack the box ever saw it. Bet they didn’t. Grandpa, whaddya think it is?”
“Whoa, girl. Dat’s a real mystery. Lemme get a screwdriver. She’s got it nailed on there in four places. It’s fer sure she didn’t wannna lose what’s inside.”
The paper was a bit crumbly, but inside that folder thing, she had stories. Six stories. One was called, I kid you not, “Suzy Goes to the Store.”
“Grandpa, look! She even knew my name!”
“Sweet Pea. Dis a great discovery. I knew she wrote stories. I gotta whole book of ’em. Maybe she knew you liketa write stories, too. Maybe she’s tellin’ ya to write stories ta tell wid the puppets.”
“Oh, Grampa, I will. Can we tell Grandmother our secret? Can we show her?”
“Don’t know why not. Can’t keep dis whole thing a secret, now, can we?”
I run…or rather walk like a lady, ’cause that’s what Grandmother expects me to do…to where Grandmother is sitting. She’s sewing a button on one of my shirts. I got it caught on the playground at school. At least I didn’t lose the button.
“Grandmother. Can you come with me? Grandpa and I have something to show you. It’s really wonderful, Grandmother. I need to find Stella and Joey.”
I did. They were reading in our room. “Come with me, guys. I have a secret. I gotta show it to you. It’s in the garage.”
So, when the whole family was there, we slid the puppet theater out of the wooden box where it had lived for a very long time. No one expected such a marvelous surprise, but the minute we all saw it, we knew something special entered our lives that day.
“Well, I never,” Grandmother said. “I had marionettes when I grew up. All my friends did. I learned to sew making costumes for my dollies.”
Did I see her eyes tearing up? I’m sure I did. “Children, these are very, very old. Not sure I can let you play with them. Their strings are fragile.”
“How do they work, Grandmother?” Joey asked. He always wanted to know about new things. I’m sure he’d never seen a puppet like these. I know I never had.
“Well,” taking the crossbar in her right hand, the strings allow the puppeteer, that’s the one who makes the puppet move, pull the strings to make the puppet walk, or sit, or dance, or move the arms. See?…”
We hadn’t seen Grandmother smile for a long time. But she made the little Joey puppet walk after she practiced a bit. She was a natural. She could really make him do it.
“Oh, Grandmother. Can you teach me to sew? I want to make a whole bunch of these. And Grandpa, can you do the string things so we can make them tell my stories?”
“Ya, I think that ken be done. We can all work on dis project, whaddyathink, Mother?”
He calls her that sometimes, even though she is definitely not his mother. His mother, our Great Grandmother, made this wonderful puppet theater. But I never will figure out the secret of how she made our family, Stella, Joey, Tippy, and me ninety years ago.
And how did she know the date we opened the box? The story at the top of the pile had the date 13 April, 1933 on it. Today’s date, no kidding, is April 13, 2023.
She kept us a secret for ninety years, nailed to the bottom of a wooden box that crossed the ocean.
If I have my way, my grandchildren will read my stories. That’ll be my secret to give to them. Someday they, and maybe many others, will read my stories and see the paintings I’ll do for the back wall of a puppet theater. I’ll be sure to tell one about how we found Great Grandmother’s gift that just keeps on giving.
Betty Whitaker Jackson Copyrighted material, June 14, 2023
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