Can Cellar

The windowpane of the school bus rattled against my head as I rose from sleep, stirred by the rumbling of tires on gravel road. Though it was only November, the school year already felt long. Not as long as the threat of the winter that the almanac portended this year. Well, all according to daddy, anyway.

Speaking of daddy, there he was, waiting for me to get off the bus. unusual—he often worked far later. However, this week contained Thanksgiving, providing a short break for both he and I. So it was that he looked about as tired as I felt. He put out his cigarette as he rose to greet me, his gaunt, work-weathered face wearing a happy smile.

“Aye buddy. How was schoo’?” he said, in his Appalachian accent. An accent which I had inherited. A fact that would always make me cringe when folks reminded me of it…

“SchooL was fine, dad. Looks like you got off work early…” I said, emphasizing the L he missed before, to which he paid no mind.

“Yep. Got off early to git ready fer supper. Gonna git in that cellar and git them cans o beans, what not. Let’s go” Daddy commanded as he chirped, gesturing toward the can cellar that lay out back. Most folks around here had one—canning beans was such a part of the culture that there was even a String Bean bluegrass festival that our one-stoplight town was known for. Yet another hillbilly tradition that fostered my chagrin…

“Uh, yeah, I guess I don’t have anything better to do” I replied, unbothered to hide my dejectedness.

“Alrighty, get upstairs an’ change and we’ll go down yonder” daddy said as he patted me on the back, again ignoring my attitude. I never could tell with him. In any case, I entered our farm house, taking in the familiar smell of the gas fireplace and the faint scent of cedar.I ascended the stairs to my back bedroom, decorated in a gaudy cowboy style: an exaggeration of what daddy wished on me.

I threw off my school clothes and quickly threw on my play ones. The can cellar was dark and balmy. I couldn’t stand getting my nice clothes dirty. I traipsed back down the stairs, dreading the labor that I was coerced into. I can’t say that I was ever forced to do much of anything, but it was always easier to just go along with whatever daddy wanted to do. I preferred the path of least resistance when it came to most things, anyway.

I came back outside and met daddy on the porch. “I reckon ye look ready enough. Let’s git it done” daddy said as he walked toward the backyard, gesturing for me to follow. I put my hands in my pockets as I matched daddy’s stride, keeping pace just behind him. I let out a small sigh and began my usual daydreaming about doing anything other than being in this holler.

We reached the cellar after a short time, stopping at the decrepit tin door that guarded the cans within the small hill. As daddy unlocked it and pried it open, a hissing shriek let loose from the rusty metal as it dragged across the concrete floor of the cellar. Daddy stepped in first, and, once again in step with him, I followed behind.

Daddy shined a flashlight, revealing shelves upon shelves of jarred vegetables that seemed as though they had been there since time began. Daddy cleared his throat before he spoke, choking on the dust that we stirred up. “Well, lessee… we need some o’ them string beans for the casserole… some o’ them yams and taters, too… and corn. Getchee one o’ them milk grates and fill it up with them jars. Start on the bottom so ye don’t bust nothin’” daddy ordered, keeping his tone even, though I understood that haste would make waste of my behind.

“Sure dad” I replied, retrieving a crate and kneeling down to begin collecting these decrepit jars. As I carefully placed the jars in the crate, I noticed the light of daddy’s flashlight, now in a fixed position at the door of the cellar as he too collected jars, glinting off of an almost golden latch at the opposite end from where I was kneeling. Strange, considering how it obviously contrasted against the drab surroundings.

Still kneeling, I shuffled over to get a better look, now being able to clearly see that the latch belonged to a small door at the back of the cellar. Though I had not spent much time in this hole in general, I certainly would have noticed the extra door before. At least, so I had thought.

“Dad? What’s this door back here? I never saw it before” I called back, and yet, daddy did not reply. I look back and squinted into the dimly lit darkness and saw no daddy. I assumed he must have stepped out, having gathered the jars with far more efficiency.

Returning my attention to the door, I attempted to fiddle with the latch in an effort to reveal the cellars new secret. It wouldn’t budge. Though, amongst the silence, I began to hear some noise just on the other side. It sounded like a faint skittering that slowly transitioned to a low, raspy growl. Then, I could begin to make out what could have been whispered words:

“…mm…gggg…

Gggggo… ooo… ggooonnn

GONNAAA GITTTCHEEEE”

The low rasp turned quickly to a shriek, as the door sprang open to reveal a spindly frame of a thing that might have resembled an old crone. I didn’t have much time to react, as my last thoughts of leaving the holler were all that accompanied me down the hole with Mamaw. That, and my daddy’s words as he closed the cellar door:

“you gon’ learn today, boy.”