Fright

Every summer, the journey to Hot Springs was a cherished tradition, a sweet escape from the hustle and bustle of daily life with my busy parents. Spending time with my grandparents, Daisy and Yeisley, was a refuge, a sanctuary that balanced the scales.

To Daisy, I was more than just a grandchild; I was a symbol of hope and resilience. She had faced the harsh realities of her time, experiencing the loss of pregnancies and the tragic death of a newborn. My arrival into her life was a second chance, a victory over the cruel hand of fate. What I treasured most was the warmth in her eyes every time I entered a room.

Our summers were spent in a cozy cabin in Montana, a place we discovered and returned to year after year. The surroundings were idyllic—flower beds lining the lanes and the sun shining almost daily. Downtown, there was a charming soda shop and a movie theater where I once watched a film about the San Francisco earthquake.

One memorable day, Grandpa Yeisley took me to a drugstore and bought me a book about a fuzzy bear. This tall, rugged cowboy of a man buying me a children's book was a gesture that I held dear for years.

On this particular morning, I was playing with my dolls near the cabin door, wearing my brand-new yellow sandals adorned with floral designs. The joy of wearing new sandals, free from the confines of sturdy school shoes, was unparalleled.

"Hey, girlie, those shoes look brand new. My sister would love those. And that doll too. How about you give them to me?" A voice interrupted my playtime.

I looked up to find a boy blocking my path to the safety of our cabin. He was bigger, tougher, and intimidating.

"These are my shoes and this is my doll," I responded, trying to muster courage.

"Right now, they are. But I intend to take them. If you don't give them to me," he threatened.

The cabin seemed tantalizingly close. The screen door was ajar, offering a glimmer of hope.

"Don't even think about calling for help. I can grab and run faster than anyone in town," he warned, as if reading my thoughts.

Tears welled up inside me. My doll was precious, a Christmas gift from two years ago. My grandmother had even set up a tea party for her. And then there were the doll bunk beds, high chair, and dishes—all safely stored away in a closet back home in California.

Just as the boy took a step closer, the cabin door flew open. Standing in the Montana sunlight was my Grandmother Daisy—or at least, it looked like her.

Her white hair was disheveled, framing her face like a halo. She wore only a white slip and had hastily put on her bulky 1940s hearing aid, making her look like a creature from outer space.

The boy's eyes widened in fright, and I realized he could run faster than anyone in town. My doll lay safely on her blanket, and my sandals still looked new.

Grandmother Daisy retreated into the cabin, where Grandpa Yeisley offered her robe for comfort. I rushed into their embrace, feeling safe and protected.

"Irene, you never need to be afraid when your grandmother is nearby. She protects her family," Grandpa said, his eyes twinkling with hidden mirth.

Indeed, Daisy had been my protector and mentor for years. When I was sick with a fever, she took care of me, even though she couldn't hear my cries. When I was scared of Santa Claus, she used our dog Shep to play a harmless trick on me. She taught me how to care for the farm animals, bake treats, and even play the piano.

She was always there for me, whether it was comforting me during a baseball game or saving me from a grumpy waitress at The Eatwell Cafe. And even on the day before she passed away from a heart attack, she was still interested in the small happenings of our small town.

The best moments of my childhood were the times when I walked into a room, and Grandmother Daisy's eyes lit up with joy. Like the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, her love and protection were constants in my life.