It’s early September and the winds bring a soft breeze, rustling the dried cornstalks. Harvest time is around the corner. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, letting the earthiness fill my nostrils. Can I create a candle that captures the essence of a cornstalk’s final days? Naw, probably not. I balance my fanny on the top of the fence post, both feet wrapped around the bottom rung for support. I think about the number of times I sat in this very spot, watching Grandpa drive the tractor, tending his fields.
“Knee high by July Katygirl,” he would say. These crops never fail to amaze me. I respect the precision of the rows, the sameness, the simplicity of the repetitive pattern. “See that right there,” Grandpa’d say, “that there’s a tassel. And right there, that there’s a silk. It takes the courtin’ of the tassle and the silk to make corn. And when it does, it forms a collar, like right there,” he said pointing to the exact spot. “Yep, that’s where the magic of the maze begins.”
It won’t be long before the corn makes its way to the silos, farmers’ markets, and kitchen tables. Gerald Flanders, the farmer who’s been tending the fields for Grandma since Grandpa died several years ago will be harvesting any day now, completing the final crop. At least the final crop under the name of Pendleton Farms. Two nights ago we lost Grandma. My mom found her in the living room, sitting in her recliner with the television on. Mom said Grandma had a smile on her face. She didn’t seem to suffer, but she was alone. I hate that. This time tomorrow we’ll all say our final goodbyes. I think Grandma timed her departure for harvest season. Like everything Grandma did, she saw it through. All indications were that she was ready. She spoke of Grandpa constantly in her final days, said he’d been dropping in from time to time.
“Saw your Grandpa last night. He was pleased we have a good corn crop this year,” she said over the phone.
“He is? Well that’s awesome! You need to let Mr. Flanders know he’s doing a good job,” I said trying not to convey my alarm.
“You don’t believe me do you Katygirl?” Her voice strained.
“Why, Grandma, of course I believe you. If you say he came by for a visit, then he came by for a visit.” I assured her.
“He sure did. I could see him as plain as I can see this coffee cup I’m holding.”
“Did he say anything else Grandma?” I asked.
Silence
“Grandma, you there? Grandma?”
“Oh sorry honey, thought I heard something. No matter. I’m sure it wasn’t anything. Probably that pin oak. I need to get Gerald to trim that thing for me. It taps at my bedroom window whenever the wind blows. Oh, oh, I got to go. My program’s about to start sweetie.”
“Okay, Well I’ll let you go. I love you Grandma.”
“And I love you Katygirl,” she said. Her final words to me. Her final words period. She died later that night. I never imagined that would be my last conversation with her. She died alone, and that disturbs me most of all.
“It’s time to do this,” I say with a sigh. I hop down off the fence and begin carrying out the task at hand. Finding Grandma’s apron. Mom called me early this morning asking if I’d stop by the farm, pick up Grandma’s apron, and drop it off at the funeral home. The funeral director was preparing Grandma for burial. Mom could’ve sworn she’d put that apron in the bag yesterday with all the other items collected, but when she got to the funeral home, the apron wasn’t in the bag. It was important ’cause Grandma insisted that she be buried in her Sunday best and her favorite apron. Grandpa bought the apron for her one Christmas. It displayed a large red hen on the front with orange and green rickrack bordering the skirt of the apron. He wanted to cheer her up since she’d lost her favorite hen Henrietta that year.
Grandma had a no nonsense approach to what needed to be done, even the details of her own funeral. “Now listen up,” grandma said to us one Sunday, about a month before her death, “when it’s time to meet my maker, I’ll be wearing my best blue dress and my Henrietta apron. I want the Lord to see me coming and know I’m ready to serve.” And when Grandpa passed away years ago, she insisted that he be buried in his brown Sunday suit and wearing his field boots. “Your Grandpa worked hard all his life, and the one thing he could count on besides the good Lord and all of us were them boots.” she said. I smile thinking of her insistence. Yes, we followed her directions then, and we will follow them now.
My feet make crunching sounds as I travel up the gravel driveway. Reluctantly I climb the steps of the porch, willing myself to move. In the corner of the house is Grandma’s mop. Next to it stands the old metal pail she used to clean and wax the kitchen floor. The rubber mat that once held Grandpa’s earth covered boots sits by the door, still caked with remnants of those soiled boots, even after all these years. My heart hurts. It’s heavy with loss. I try and shake it off and retrieve the house key from under the broken flower pot on the window sill. The screen door squeaks as I hold it open with my hip and insert the key in the lock. I enter into my past.
It’s deathly quiet, except for the tick of the cuckoo clock that hangs on the wall above the refrigerator. The kitchen’s a wash of gray gloom and the window shades are drawn. I walk across the room and raise them. Light filters in, illuminating the kitchen’s cracked colorless linoleum. Even the presence of light doesn’t help. It remains gloomy. I begin my search. Usually grandma’s apron can be found on the hook next to the stove. It’s not there. The kitchen cabinets, once white are now stained yellow with time. I open up drawers, chipped and scarred from years of use. I spend several minutes rifting through rags that pass for kitchen towels, scorched potholders, tarnished serving spoons, and an ancient ice cream scoop. I can find no apron. Next, upper cabinets. I search for for what seems like forever, sifting through mismatched glassware, mixing bowls, metal measuring cups, and cookware that has seen better days. No luck. I walk to the utility room, searching inside the washer and dryer and the laundry basket. Nope, not, there. I stop.
“Geeze Grandma, help me out here. What did you do with your apron?” I ask out loud. I look at my watch, “Shoot, Oh golly!” I don’t have much time left before I’ll have to be at the funeral home. I move to the living room and spy the recliner. Without warning, a coldness sweeps across the room. I shiver and wonder if a window has been left open. I approach the recliner. Her red and blue wool throw is draped over the seat of the recliner. A coffee cup still half full sits on the side table. I don’t see the apron anywhere.
Well, what now I think. Maybe she left it in her room, perhaps forgetting to take it off earlier in the week when she went upstairs to bed. I hope so. I climb the narrow stairway. Each step creaks under my weight. The house is almost a hundred years old for goodness sake. What do I expect? I reach the landing and fumble in the dark for the hallway lamp. They never did have an overhead light installed. It’s a wonder they both didn’t break their necks. I turn to the left and enter Grandma’s bedroom. I switch on the light next to her bed. I feel the coldness again and smell the faint scent of lilacs. Well it’s a drafty house and Grandma did love her sachets. I shudder and move along, checking drawers and closets. I even look under the bed. I move to the second bedroom that is Grandma’s sewing room. I look through the stacks of fabric next to the sewing machine. From the looks of it, she was working on a quilt, but no apron there either. I step into the bathroom. I search the hamper, inspect the contents of the linen closet, and even go so far as to peek behind the shower curtain. No apron. I place my hand on my hips and wonder what I do now. I hear a door downstairs slam. I freeze. There is shuffling. My heart is literally in my throat.
I stand at the top of the stairs. “Hello,” I call out. “Hello, who’s there?” I wait. I am on high alert. There is no answer. Realizing I just can’t stand here, I make my descent slowly down the stairs. “Hello, anyone there?” I call out again, inching my way down. “If this is a joke, it’s not funny,” I say swallowing hard. I force myself to move forward. I hear something. It’s faint at first, then grows louder. There is a crackling sound. I hear humming. Someone’s singing. It’s coming from the kitchen. What the hell is happening. I screw up all the courage I have and cross the living room to the kitchen. I peak in. I can’t believe my eyes. No, it’s simply not possible. Grandma is standing at the stove.
“Katygirl, call your Grandpa for supper,” she says without turning around. She’s frying chicken. The aroma is undeniable. I can’t move.
“Grandma, is that you?” I ask in a whisper. She doesn’t answer, she just continues tending to the chicken sizzling on the stove. I cautiously cross the threshold into the kitchen. The table is set for three with Grandma’s gold leaf china. There’s a large dish of mashed potatoes, topped with melted butter, fresh corn on the cob, and her infamous strawberry jello mold. My eyes widen as I spy the basket of made from scratch buttermilk biscuits and the ever present porcelain bluebell bowl filled with homemade blackberry jam. I’m hallucinating. That’s got to be it. She’s not really there. Move, I tell myself. Get out. But I can’t.
“Katygirl, why are you just standing there? Go fetch Grandpa and tell him supper’s ready. Oh never mind, I hear him coming now. Go wash up.”
I am still unable to move. I manage to find my voice and say again. “Grandma, is it really you? Are you really here?”
“Dear Lord child what’s wrong with you?” She’s now looking directly at me as the screen door slams. I jump.
“Why something sure does smell good,” Grandpa says as he walks through the door. “I was sure hoping you made fried chicken for supper. Hi there, Katygirl,” he says with a grin.
I shut my eyes tight. I am dreaming. I will myself to wake up. I breath deeply. I inhale. I exhale. I do it again. I slowly open my eyes. They are still there.
“Oh for heaven’s sake Clifford, look what you’ve done! You’ve gone and walked across my just waxed floor with them muddy boots of yours. Get outside and take them boots off. Grab the mop on your way back in. Get on outta here,” she demands, turning her back to him and giving her attention once again to the chicken on the stove.
Grandpa glances at me with a twinkle in his eye, puts his finger to his lips gesturing for me to stay quiet. He tiptoes behind her and says,”Oh Maddie, you know I love a feisty woman in an apron.” Wrapping his arms around her and guiding her to waltz with him.
“Oh Clifford stop, stop, you’re making a bigger mess on the floor,” she protests.
I watch paralyzed as Grandpa throws his head back, laughing as he holds her tight and glides her around the room. Grandma wants to be mad, but it’s apparent she can’t. She bursts out laughing, shaking her head as she lets him lead her around the floor. They are in lock step, looking happier than I’ve ever seen them. I am stunned at the vision that is playing out in front of me. My heart is thumping in my chest. Am I losing my mind? Is grief playing a trick on me? They continue twirling, and then, without warning, their image begins to fade, until they are no longer there.
I can’t believe what I have just witnessed. I’m shaken. Finding my feet I cross to a now empty kitchen table and sit. I glance at the stove. There isn’t any chicken frying. I can’t believe any of this. I put my face in my hands, trying to get a grip on what just happened. I remain seated for several minutes. I realize I can’t sit here any longer. It’s late. I hate to have to tell Mom I couldn’t find the apron. And I’m certainly not going to tell her what I just witnessed, or what I think I just witnessed. She’ll think I’ve lost my marbles. Nope, better keep this one to myself. I wearily get up to leave. I stop. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. Leading from the back door, through the kitchen, and into the living room are large muddy footprints.
“What the heck?” I say. I slowly follow the footprints to where they stop directly in front of the recliner. Narrowing my eyes, I catch a glimpse of what looks to be something orange and green protruding from under Grandma’s throw. I gently lift the blanket, and there, hidden in plain sight is Grandma’s apron. I pick it up and bring it to my face. It smells of lilacs. I carry it with me out the door.
THE END
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