TATER

My 11 year old self is bored again.

        The grown ups are in the den of my grandparent’s house, rehashinghistory and working up an appetite for one of Grandma’s amazing feasts.  Not even a holiday, but I can smell the pies she has cooling in the parlor, all the way in the back yard by the alley which runs behind the red slat board fence.I am examining the delicate husk of a cicada, which has imbedded itself on the bark of my Papa’s paper shell pecan tree.  I stand amazed as I pluck it from the bark, and realize that the hole in the husk’s back, is where the big winged cicada with beady red eyes, made its escape into this world, from it’s years spent scratching and digging in the dark, dank earth.  There is something sinister, fragile, and beautiful in this shell.  I hold it up against the sunlight and examine all the intricate lines and fine detail of this skin, this armor left behind for flight and courtship, safety traded in for its moment in the sun, to mate and die, and return to the soil.  I pop it in my treasure box that Grandma made me;  an old cigar box lined with tacking.  I carefully arrange the contents so my new addition won’t get crushed by the old.

        My sister’s are in the house with the grownups, pretending to be intrigued by their talk.  They are “more mature” than I, and are afraid of being sent outside to play by exhibiting the least bit of disinterest.  I rolled my eyes on the way out as I caught my sister stifling a yawn.  So I have explored the alley where the bamboo grows wild, and have managed to catch a grasshopper or two.  I like to see them spit their tobacco juice on my hand, before letting them go.  I have examined my Papa’s workroom in the garage, where he hand carves the most beautiful things out of hardwood.  He is working on a butt for the 12 gauge shotgun out of walnut, and I can see the difficulty of the fine detail work he is etching with his carving tools.  Chisels of all shapes and sizes, from blunt to needle thin, and all of the hand made and mixed stains and finishes he has concocted through years ofexperience.  My finger traces the scrolling fancy work in the dark grain and I marvel at the time it must have taken to produce such beauty.

       It’s hotter than hell outside, it being June in Duncan, Oklahoma.  My fair skin in need of shade, and my body in need of cold lemonade with mint leaves.  Grandma always has a pitcher on hand.  Its on the top shelf of her fridge, next to the bell jar of cucumber slices in vinegar water, and a half eaten jar of her home made chow chow.  I get a glass and am shooed from the hot kitchen, and told to go upstairs and find a book to read.  I turn my eyes to my grandma and she notes my hesitation.

        “Taterbug, go on, ain’t nothin gonna bother you.  Besides, I sent your Papa up their this morning to turn on the air conditioner so you kids can have a cool place to play.”

        The look in her eye said “no quarter” and I realized I was out of choices.  We weren’t allowed in the living room or the fancy parlor, and my brother and young cousin were taking a nap in Grandma’s room.  I turned away from the kitchen and made my way to the attic stairs.  I looked up and saw nothing out of the ordinary, so I started up one step at a time.  I have traipsed up and down these steps countless times, and they always have the same groans and creaks.  I don’t like this area of their house.  I don’t like it at all.

        At the top of the stairs is a little landing where you have to turn left into the converted open bedroom area, or reach right for the door opening into the storage area.  This landing is my least favorite place.  I feel the progression of the coolness as I make my way up towards it.  I am watching the handle of the door to the right as I get ready to dash to the left.  Sometimes the handle turns and the door opens, and sometimes not.  Today the handle turns, but the door stays shut.  I bound past it willing myself not to look anymore, lest I scare myself back downstairs and into trouble.

        The room opens up before me and is shaped like a plus sign (+) or a cross, with the hand carved cherry sleigh bead at the top of the cross, and the wall leading to the landing and stairs at the bottom.  The -- section is a reading nook with the rocker, leading to the open center area, to the right is a walk in closet space which is open to the rest of the room.  This area is my safe zone, and has book shelves, curios, and lots of fascinating nick knacks that Grandmas always seem to have for their grandkids to marvel over and ask questions about.  I head to the book shelves and start to peruse the pickings.  Hardy, Thomas Wolf, Melville, Steinbeck, Sinclair Lewis, Twain, Dickens, Hemmingway, you name it, papa’s read it and stored it here.  I select “The Pearl” by Steinbeck, and turn towards the reading nook and the rocking chair.

        It is already occupied.

        My mind had already picked up the sound of the runners striking the plush carpet back and forth, but my brain hadn’t processed it yet.   Not until I turned and saw it rocking that is.  There is no breeze in the attic, the floors don’t slope, and there really isn’t a reason for this rocker to  be rocking except that it is.  I’m not sure who this is, this being that likes to scare the shit out of me.  It may be my great grandpa Bear, who died in this room. or it may be a previous owner.  I feel more than one presence in this house, but I have never felt more than one presence at time.  It confuses me, and I hate this shit, and I just want them to go away.  I need them to realize I don’t want them coming to me, or letting me feel them. 

    “Please leave me alone and stop scaring me.” I say.

        The rocker slows down gradually, and then stops.  I feel this soul breeze past me, and towards the landing.

    “Thank you.”

    I never forget my manners with them.  I am terrified of making them angry with me.  Most times I don’t get treated to any sights or sounds like this, I just feel someone there.  Just a small voice telling me I am not alone, that some thing or soul is observing me.  Sometimes I ignore it, and sometimes its too strong and creeps me out.

        My hands are shaking and I drop the book.  I hear footsteps on the stairs.

        “Tate?  You all right sugar?”  It’s my grandma.

        “ No.  No I’m not okay.”

        “I’m sorry you’re upset honey, but nothin’s goin to harm you up here. You want me to sit with you for a spell?”

        “Yes, please.”

        I know that she knows that I know that she knows, yet we dance around subject of these dead people.  She won’t give an adult voice to these irrational occurrences, yet tells me I am her only grandchild that is “scared up here”.  She has lived here so long that she has almost managed to dismiss the odd chill, or  poltergeist that occurs from time to time.  I tried talking to my parent’s about this, but they are completely not tuned in, and dismiss my complaints of haunted rooms, as neurosis of an imaginative child.  My family sleeps up here in this attic room whenever we visit.  It is large enough to sleep my brother sisters and I near the landing area, and my parents in the sleigh bed.  Everyone is deaf and blind to this shit except your’s truly.  I have awoken at night to find the landing door open.  I have heard footsteps of an adult male walk up those groaning steps all the way to the landing, only to see no one there, all this while everyone else sleeps peacefully around me.

        I welcome my Grandma’s arm around me, her warmth and protection. She hasn’t accepted her own senses even though she has obviously observed mine.  How does she discuss this subject with a child, when she is worried what might be said about her own state of mind if anyone else found out?  I guess I might discuss this with a niece or nephew in this day and age, but can’t really fault my Grandma for her inability or unwillingness to.

        She has come to me a few times since she passed.  I let her know I love her, but she knows I don’t like it.  I still can’t get over the creepy spine shivering gut twist it sends through me.  I would much rather be blissfully unaware.I haven’t confided this much with anyone until now.  My Aunt Sue (Dad’s sister, Grandma’s daughter) and I were talking a while back about the house in Duncan, and we both flinched a little when the attic was mentioned.  I asked her immediately if she felt any weirdness up there, and she proceeded to tell me some of the same things I have shared with you.  The foot steps, the chair rocking.  She spent her entire high school years living up there!  She told me that she once woke up and saw an older man leaning over the foot of her bed, like he was trying to comfort her.  She thinks it was her deceased grandpa.  I was immensely relieved to know another experienced  these things too, and would talk about it.  I told her I was fucking amazed that she could continue to live up there like she did.  I dreaded staying up there, and couldn’t wait to leave.  somehow she was able to just shrug it off.

        Anyone else have a ghostly experience, or a perceived sixth sense?  I am curious to hear your “tales of the weird”.