Grandpa Jake’s Secret Stash

Grandpa Jake was a man of few words. The ones you sometimes heard being things like, “ turnipheads” , when referring to government officials, “ummm” when eating a hot apple pie ala mode or “crymenintly!”, a made up oath we heard when a finger was smashed, a pig got loose, or a piece of machinery he was fixing gave him trouble. This could also be uttered in excitement or awe, like when I won the spelling bee! Crymenintly, baby girl! You are the Queen speller!”

Despite his few spoken words, his lopsided grin, strong gnarled arms and hands did the real talking with playful jokes and goofy faces, enormous bear hugs that, “squeezed the pudding out of you” and carrying me on his rod straight shoulders to pick apples and have that wonderful view from way up there.

Grandpa was eighty when he died, just a month before. He had left me the farm and greenhouses, his only grand baby.

Grandma, who had died a few years prior, who was known as Big Mama Agnes, weighed at least 300 and had a lap that could hold me, a basket of corn to shuck and her needlework, all at the same time.

She was warm, soft and curvy and loved to give sloppy wet mouth kisses and gentle butterfly kisses with her amazingly long eyelashes for an elderly woman.

God, how I missed them, I sighed, as I stood in the kitchen of the old New England house, its floorboards so uneven and unlevel that a marble would have rolled into the corner from the center.

I loved the house, but deferred maintenance had made it drafty and cold, unsafe in places and hardly habitable. It was so wonderful to be given this gift and thought of in their love for me, but what could I do with it? I had no money to fix it.

I was alone in the world now. My father had left when I was a baby. My mother had died of uterine cancer the year before which had crushed my Grandpa’s ornery spirit. It was just me, at twenty-eight, with Grandpa’s old cat Whitey, named for the mobster Whitey Bulger.

He looked the part with some scars on his face and a “resting bitch face” that projected his badass self. This was funny because he was really a big softy who loved his belly rubbed for hours and his cat fighting days were long over.

Whitey and I were looking through the rooms one at a time and as I passed the old pantry I noticed a peg on the wall that was crooked. As my obsessive compulsive disorder kicked in I went to straighten it, and when I did there was an audible, “click”.

A small door built into the oak wainscoting opened. Inside, it was dimly lit with dust filtering through a small bit of light coming through a tiny window.

I tried to imagine where this was on the outside of the big house? What was this used for?

As my eyes adjusted to the twilight, I saw the tall bookcases, filling the whole room, filled with leather bound books. I was flabbergasted! I knew Grandpa had quit school in the eighth grade. I never knew he and Big Mama read books like these.

As I looked and opened a few, I saw all the classics, Dickens, Poe, Thoreau, all looking really old and important. Gilt edges, hand tooled, marbled end pages. Shelves and shelves of them. Well kept and dust free in the dusty room.

There was a note pinned on the shelf. “Darling girl, if you have found my secret room I have passed on. The books are your inheritance. They are first editions, many signed. The most pricey is my signed copy of Thomas Jefferson’s book on the Constitution, sold from his personal library. I never told you about them as your last surprise.

I gasped. I couldn’t image what that alone was worth! The note continued.

“You know how much fun I had giving you games to play and mysteries to solve. I have one more game to remember me by. Find the black book. That’s all I’ll say and that Grandma Agnes and I love you very much and will watch over you from here.”

I sat in a crumpled Queen Anne chair and giggled and cried. I had so many questions! Why didn’t he show me this room? Where was the black book? What was in it?

I spent the next three days pouring over the library, amazed at the rarity and quality of the books. Copies signed by Teddy Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway, Galileo and Darwin! There were some black leather volumes but how would I know it was THE black book?

Exhausted from sleep deprivation and wondering what I would do if I couldn’t find it, I laid down on the thick, braided rug and covered myself with a grey, wool blanket and fell into a glorious dream state.

When I woke up Whitey scared me by being two inches from my face, breathing into it with his seafood smelling cat breath.

I jumped up. Whitey jumped. He then began scratching at the edge of the rug. “What is it, boy?” At the edge of the rug there was an almost hidden pull tab like piece of metal, flush with the floor.

I pulled hard but the rug was in the way. I threw back the rug with some major effort and there was the trap door. It creaked open and I looked into the darkness. I ran to the junk drawer and grabbed the flashlight.

Down the ladder I went and into a long passageway. A few bats flew past my head. My heart was beating out of my chest as I felt along the cold, wet, stone wall.

I came to another ladder going up and as I pushed the door above my head I realized I was somewhere familiar. I was in part of the old shed next to the outhouse. The double outhouse. I could smell it certainly but was grateful grandpa hadn’t made me literally slog through the shit for my surprise.By then I had to go badly after all the fear and the outhouse reminded me it was right there.

As I sat, trying to relax enough to pee and trying not to think about the possibility of spiders, my mind raced.

Where was the freakin black book?! Where would he hide it?

Then I saw it. In the light of the flashlight as it swept over the inside of the outhouse, peeking out very, slightly, behind the toilet paper roll.

It was small pull tab, flush with the wood that I had never seen in the hundreds of times I had sat in there dreaming of the life I would have.

The toilet paper holder moved out of the way on a tiny hinge and there was a small square enclosure. I hesitated to put my hand in that dark hole but gathered my courage and drew out a small black book. Attached to it was another note.

“Nice job, sweet babygirl, you win the prize!” At first glance it looked like a a normal black book which said “Savings” on it but it was cold to the touch.

It was really a metal box that pretended to be a book. My heart palpitated.

I took a deep breath and opened it. I almost dropped it when I saw what was inside. I began counting , one thousand, two thousand, three thousand dollars until I reached twenty.

Besides the priceless library collection, here was the cash I needed to fix up the house! My ornery grandpa had hidden it right under my nose and almost my ass! He was having a last chuckle for certain and I laughed out loud, tears of happiness and gratitude streaming down my face.

“Crymenintly, Grandpa, Crymenintly!