Grandma’s House

I heard them before I saw them. Pounding and pounding on the door. I looked out through Grandma’s lace curtains but couldn’t see a thing. The wind blew snow across the path, embedding the hedges bordering the path.  Pounding continued.

Bang, bang, bang.  “Let us in, please!”

I went to the door and peered through the spy hole. Three tiny figures bundled in ragged blankets. The smallest rubbed her hands, fingers as fragile as porcelain.

Should I let them in? Should I trust them? What would Grandma do. If she were here?

I’ve been in Grandma’s house since Tuesday. And now it is Friday. When I left home on the other side of the forest, the sky was blue, and the path was framed by golden Aspen. Once in the part of the forest where  black spruce grows tall, it was darker. Then the wind began to blow. Clouds obscured much of what little light there was. By the time I made it to Grandma’s house I could barely see through the storm. And deep, cold, fierce wind and blowing snow kept me from returning home.

The only sign that Grandma had ever been here was her rumpled bed and, most worrying, a thin red stain on her pillow. Otherwise, the house was neat as a pin, every teacup in its place on the shelf, every handmade lace doily crisply white and precise on every polished surface. All carefully dusted porcelain figurines were on display in the china cabinet with frilled skirts blowing in gentler winds. Grandma’s safe little gingerbread house creaked as a cruel wind howled outside. And now, I could barely see the children outside Grandma’s door.

“Please let us in.”

Grandma said, “Beware of strangers”. “They might be wolves in sheep’s clothing”, she said.  “Best to keep ourselves to ourselves.” Were these children really what they looked like?

“Let us in. The wolves will eat us.”

Yes, the wolves! Yes. I heard them on Tuesday, howling from a distance. As I made my way through the forest to Grandma’s house, I saw scat and enormous paw prints on the sandy surface of the path.

We’d all heard the stories. Mostly from Grandma.  She said a pack of wolves could tear out a child’s throat and devour her in an instant. She said we should be careful. I was very scared.

“Ahwrooo!”  Was it getting closer?

I looked again at the three small figures outside the door. Should I trust them? Should I let them in? What would Grandma do?

I opened the door.

Wacky Warren

I hummed the theme song to Coronation Street as I trotted up the stairs leading to my top floor apartment, located in a well-placed Edwardian house. I love my little hideaway. So charming, so cleverly designed. My collector copies of Victorian novels! My collection of fine porcelain!  Exquisite!

I picked up  lovely Queen Anne chairs in an auction in Montreal a few years ago.  I used the VISA I lifted from dim-witted Charles. It was all paid for, shipped and the card cut into tiny pieces and deposited into public trashbefore Charles even knew it was missing.  Of course, I commiserated.

“Oh, you poor dear! Here! Let me kiss it better.” Charles still sends me plaintive love letters. I say that my heart belongs to Daddy.

But Daddy’s been dead for years.  “What fun!”

The Last Scruple: a Mid-winter’s Tale

Better Angel  walked into the House of Commons.  The Speaker’s Chair sat empty.  But there in his old seat sat the ghost of Lester Pearson.  He turned his sad face towards Better Angel. “Mr. Prime Minister, someone is crying.”

“My dear, the House of Commons is for moaning and groaning.  It is for howling and screaming.  It is for gnashing of teeth.  But for weeping and wailing, you must try the Senate”.

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The Last Scruple; a Mid-winter’s Tale is available online at lulu.com.