Stories like this remind me of my own childhood. I slid down one of those cellar doors and have scars to prove it, but kids don’t care about scars. After I became an adult, my husband and I lived where there was an old cellar and had occasion to offer its musty smell to friends who came there to escape a tornado. We cared little for the cobwebs, mice and dank odor that day.
Tolerant friends listen whenever I tell stories about Nannie, my grandmother. She was a fountain of valuable life lessons and something happens almost daily to remind me of a Nannie-story, so I tell it. Friends are not only tolerant but often ask unprompted questions!
Was she funny? – She could be hilarious and she loved to laugh.
She told stories too? – Oh yes.
True stories? – I believed everything she said.
You believed everything she said? – Well, there was this one time…
And so I told them about a spring years ago when she said something I didn’t believe:
“I ain’t going down there.” I squinted into the darkness. The dank smell of ancient-ness floated up through cracks in the old wooden door.
“Nannie asked you to.” Vicki said sternly.
Prodded by my older sister’s reminder, I looked down at the uneven cement steps in front of me…
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