Secret Passages Nothing Ever Happens in Tuttlebury

It was a steamy hot day and it was only early April. Grandpa Norfeld always liked them that way. But today's tidal wave of sweat was getting out of hand. He had already drenched his worn plaid shirt and was wiping his neck with an old red handkerchief. He would endure. Definitely he believed old school thinking and ways of doing … he wouldn't let his son destroy the house with that fancy stuff, what was it called; central air? He had finally given in to a couple of those wall boxes that pumped out smelly ice cube air. He refused to turn them on, that is, unless his son's family was paying a visit. He was an old man and could do what he darn well pleased. Grandpa walked to the kitchen window, holding his huge cup of black coffee. He pushed the worn café curtains aside and looked outside. Dried out grass covered a portion of the backyard but looking beyond was an acreage of fallow ground. Hard, and now unused, nature had seeded it with flower, trees, and every sort of weed. He blinked and imagined as it had been, an abundant farm yielding corn and tomato as well as his beloved strawberry. The livestock barn was to the right filled with the happy mooing of cow and scent of manure. How he loved those animals! He would rise at four in the morning for the first milking and return to the kitchen by nine to enjoy a second breakfast with his dear wife. She often made pancakes with blueberries and warmed real maple syrup. Life couldn't get much better. But now his wonderful wife and the blueberry pancakes and the farm were gone. A cherished memory in his heart. Grandpa took a gulp of his coffee and nodded sadly. They had been a happy family. All he learned about farming he had gladly taught his daughter and son. He wanted them to know how to manage a farm. Because like many a father would hope; the children would carry on the business. He had done so for his dad. But it wasn't to be. His son refused and even his daughter who had shown interest had left to become a nurse. He sold off most of the property and maintained a small crop with the use of hired help. Stepping into his eighty-fifth year, he didn't have the strength to farm this place anymore. He had tried hard, with sleeves pulled up to his taunt upper muscles. Still the kids always hollered at him. He finally realized he had to slow down. Grabbing his cup, Grandpa Norfeld went out to the porch. Days like this reminded him of his youth when the family worked as a team to turn over the soil and ready it for planting. He was given responsibility for the strawberry crop. This was alright with him; the anticipation of strawberry shortcake and handfuls of berry sweetness in his mouth would ease up any aches and pains. With his rough hand, he rubbed his unshaven face and grunted. Perhaps he could do a little, just plant a row or two of those wonderful seedlings. He could buy then over at Rosetta's today. The ground was softening from the winter frost, he could dig a little bit. Couldn't he? Draining the last sip of goodness from his stained coffee mug, he threw on his dirt crusted work boots. Walking through the generous yard, he passed the dilapidated swing set, the weatherworn red barn, the chicken coups and rusty barbed wire that had established old property lines. He had a particular shovel in mind and he believed it was in the great shed. The sun burrowed a hole in his balding head—at least he had a few strands left—and the damp air sat heavy in his lungs. Sweat was rolling down his neck, soaking his back. Maybe he should turn back to the house. His wife words pounded in his mind. "Stop always being so stubborn and use common sense." But he had to do this. Grandpa stood before the weathered shed, it's once smooth paint now peels of gray and white; the padlock rusted over. He reached into his pocket for the ring of farm keys. Now he knew there were two, the shiny master and the grimy copy. Could he have lost it? Or maybe he had purposely misplaced this key because the last time … He decided search his into his pants pocket. There it was! He gingerly eased in the grimy key and as the padlock fell open, he quickly tossed the key under the dingy mat. Stale, musty air poured over him as the creaky door opened. There was the smell of dank wood and something putrid; perhaps a field mouse had broken in and couldn't get out. Grandpa was not dissuaded as he stepped into the forbidding gloom. Fumbling for the chain to the ceiling light, he tripped over odd objects. Lurching for it again, the worn chain broke away from the dusty light bulb. Darkness filled every cranny, only a solitary sunbeam from the doorway attempted to pierce through. He blinked several times, his eyes slowly acclimating. He could make out large forms, looming and awkward. Some were covered, others thrown about. So much for the once tidy shed, he had kept. But as far as he remembered, the farm implements, especially the favored shovel, should be on the far wall. Grandpa carefully took a few more steps. And stopped. Suddenly he couldn't move. Flashes of blue, red and yellow folded and swirled into intense shades of violet and aquamarine. Grandpa shuttered and grabbed his head. Was he imagining or was this really happening? His stomach lurched, the sensation of lifting and spinning was terrifying. The next moment he was resting in a calm of soft white light, like being in the eye of the storm. Strong images filled his vision of things he did not understand. There were torrential rains, unsettled voices, trees falling and family as he not known them; wrinkled and seasoned with life. There was movement as he was pushed sideways and then he floated upwards and peered down at the red checkerboard tablecloth and his steaming mug of morning coffee. In a flash, Grandpa was jerked backwards, like the sudden sensation of an amusement park ride. His eyes were filled with varying tones of sepia. Nostalgic. Photographs of life before. His lap was full of young children—giggling, excited little ones. Grandpa laughed and at the same time his heart filled with longing. There was a desire to return to those times, dreaming he could once again see his loved ones. Suddenly Grandpa grabbed his chest, the rapid thumping making him dizzy. Seated in the carriage of a roller coaster, he went up and up, halted in mid-air, then plunged downward. "No!" He threw his arms forward to stop the ride. He now remembered why he had avoided the shed. This had happened before. He began to tremble uncontrollably. How could he get out? His heart was pounding, pounding, pounding. Willfully he stepped back towards the door. Sweat was flowing down his face; a hard smirk lifted his chin. With superhero strength he rushed out the creaky door, sliding unto the grass. Stunned he lay there, his body so heavy, so full of pain. He looked up and saw a misty figure of someone that was other worldly. This womanly form was wearing a familiar strawberry apron. She gestured to him in a welcoming manner. The mist ebbed a bit; as he recognized his dear wife, Emma. Grandpa relaxed. His heart was now peaceful. Gentle symphonic tones were playing as a dazzling radiance beaconed. Grandpa Norfeld eased himself to his feet and followed.