Cash on the Kitchen Counter

“Shopping list!” he celebrated. No sooner had my grandfather dropped his pen beside the book when a dozen eggs and a container of milk appeared on the kitchen counter. I was five years old at the time so I hadn’t yet experienced anything in my life that would dissuade me from the presumed normality of this event. Indeed, grandpa’s behavior seemed to attract weirdness wherever he went. I made no connection between his oftentimes strange life and the little black book he kept in his denim smock pocket. After he died, however, and I discovered the book on a shelf in his workshop, I got a clearer picture of his magical life.

I have often wrestled with the timing of my first memory in life. Generally, I don’t get farther back than my first day of school. That being said, I do have one fairly vivid recollection of sticking a butter knife into an electrical outlet at our place during some sort of family gathering. I must have been, maybe, four years old because I now recall issuing a warning about electricity to one of my kindergarten classmates not long after that. Anyway, I remember hearing a deep-rattling ‘thud’, like a rock wrapped in a towel being dropped on the floor just before the rock was forced through my carpal tunnel, into my elbow, on its way to my shoulder. It was a dull yet powerful sensation that, literally in a flash of sparks and smoke, knocked me flat. I could smell hot metal and taste sourness in my mouth. That episode was so instant and surprising. I remember looking around at the adults in the room, wondering if any of them had witnessed the event in which I had just participated. Every weapon in my young sensory arsenal had been assaulted in the blink of an eye. I can only assume that I must surely have wailed for some time after that. No experience since, had been nearly as startling, until I attempted to grab grandpa’s little black book from that top shelf. After regaining some semblance of consciousness, I found a scoop shovel to move his codex to the most secure location I could find, and did not return to it for a long, long time.

By the time I was in Grade Six, years later, I could scarcely recall where I had hidden my grandfather’s little black book, let alone its contents. On the first day of school that year, I was blessed with the opportunity of sitting one row over from perhaps the most gorgeous girl on earth – Susan Carruthers. Any proximity to her, grossly affected my ability to speak in meaningful and complete sentences. In my first five years of school, I was deemed to be the smartest kid in the class. My marks set new standards on every report card. The comments on the reports home from my teacher were always about her wanting to adopt me or wishing for ‘more like me’ in the empty desks in her classroom. I was like a super nova waiting for the right moment to explode into space and become the foundation of a whole new universe of discovery and enlightenment. And then, Susan Carruthers came into our school and into my life. Suddenly, that star imploded. Before the days of Susan Carruthers, teachers depended on my classroom brilliance and creativity to steer them out of tough spots in a stagnant lesson, filling the void when no student cared about important events like the Battle of Hastings or the Confederation of Canada or the final songs of The Lady of Shallot. I could lift the effectiveness of a lesson, single-handedly from the muck of the gutter to a sunlit pedestal. And then, Susan Carruthers – only a dropped-pencil away, unknowingly facilitated perhaps the greatest individual academic decline in the history of our school.

First day, and the first question of the new season from Mr. Chestwich sizzled like a Roman Candle veering in my direction. It was a question I knew by heart and which had never stumped me before and which was not about to stump me now – especially not, in front of the fairest – Ms. Susan Carruthers. Time dug in its heels as the words hung anxiously in the room, “What is the name of the metallic alloy derived from combining copper and zinc?” “Anybody? Anybody? Okay then – Smith . . .” At the moment I was about to speak, I lost focus. Momentarily besieged by panic, I turned my head to the left, timely enough to view, full-on, the arm opening of Susan’s sleeveless blouse. There, silhouetted magnificently, profiled against the sunlit windows, was the crest, the apex, the smooth and gently-curved summit of the right cup of her white-laced, upper-body undergarment. A bead of sweat broke on my cheek. My head snapped back toward the front of the room perhaps feebly disguising that I had glimpsed upon, arguably one of the most sought-after views known to any eleven-year-old boy. I looked straight into Mr. Chestwich’s eyes and blurted out my final answer. Completely and utterly on my own, I squeaked out a response so clearly as to fill every corner, crack and crevasse in the room, the only possible answer to his question – “Brassiere!!”

Let us reflect now. There are, for a speaker, several words which, when used in a public elementary school classroom, often evoke less-than-desirable responses from others. ‘Brassiere’, can be so-categorized. As the word escaped my lips, I envisioned escaping myself, thus avoiding the teacher’s wrath. I simultaneously realized Mr. Chestwich was the least of my worries. Twenty-six other eleven and twelve-year-olds, including Susan Carruthers were only milliseconds from having their innocent little worlds rocked. As the first giggle echoed back in my direction, I recall now, how then, I truly hated the way ‘sound’ worked. That giggle quickly escalated to outright hoots, then to shrill whistles, then to boisterous shouts, finally climaxing in a crescendo-like roar, above which Brad Hoffer’s often-cited critique emerged as, “What a dork!” he imagined me to be. I peeked to my left, just as Susan brought her arms snuggly into her torso draping the sweater on her chair back over her shoulders. I had been exposed.

For the rest of the school day, I suffered through snickers and gazes, gossip and whispers and eventually, back slaps of approval from the Grade Eight ‘smoker’ boys hanging out in the washrooms. My infamy preceded me to every nook of solitude I sought until, the final bell – relieved, I plodded from the school, toward my bus home.

On the bus, I previewed in my pre-pubescent mind, several alternate-ending scenarios. None seemed likely at this low point. I turned in silence to the window and contemplated the miles. Just before the bus turned down our farm road, a rabbit jumped in front. “Bomp!!”, just like that, it was run over and killed. Our driver slowed down some, then remarked into the big observation mirror, “Guess we can close the book on that guy . . .” And, presto!! I remembered that I was the keeper of my grandfather’s little black book. What had, through fear mostly, been put into a metal box in the back shed, five years ago, needed to be dusted off and put to some use. I had no idea what that ‘use’ would resemble, but that didn’t stifle the rejuvenation in my step that wash-day Monday as I jumped off the bus. I ran to the house, shuddering a little as I brushed past some of mom’s under-clothes hanging on the outside line – a final motivating reminder that this day needed the magic of that book.

I threw open the screen door and burst into the kitchen and up to my mother, who was at the counter inquiring about my first day of school. I fired back a lie, “Pretty good mom.” I skipped past her, offering a high-five, which she accepted. As quickly as I had entered, I was out the back door. The door of the back shed creaked its familiar creak as I pushed it open and propped the rusty crowbar against it. The sunlight reflected from the metal box I was looking for. “A sign,” I reckoned. Heart pounding, I opened the box and cringed some as I reached to touch the book, remembering of course, what had happened the last time I tried that. To my relieved surprise, there were neither sparks nor dull thuds nor smoke. I picked up the book in my right hand and shook it before setting it on an old dresser. I flipped open the cover and found some of my grandfather’s notes and scribblings. One entry was familiar – “Shopping list: milk & eggs.” Remembering him, I ran my fingers over his words on the page. As I did, my mom came to the back door and hollered out to me in the shed, “Did you leave these eggs and milk on the counter in here?”

I can’t remember putting the book back in the box or hiding the box or leaving the shed or removing the crowbar or closing the shed door or going back into the house. But I do remember staring, mouth gaping, at the milk and eggs on the kitchen counter. I thought, “Should I, or do I need to, explain or should I just play the dumb-grade-six-kid card?” I chose the latter. I did not go near that book again for twenty years.

After I graduated from high school, I attended University to become an Urban Designer. I went to work for a company dealing a major contract for establishing a new subdivision. There were lots of meetings to attend. One of the meetings was going to be chaired by the chief spokesperson for an environmental group that had some concerns over our new project. As this woman took her place at the end of the boardroom table, our CEO introduced her to the rest of us, “Everyone, we are pleased today to be joined by a very special guest. I would like to introduce all of you to Ms. Susan Carruthers!”

“NO WAY!!”

Susan Carruthers had, for me, long been no more than a distant memory. Surprisingly though, I did not instantly think about how I had once had a crush on her or how my faux pas around her pre-teen undergarments had put me in a tight spot socially for some time. No, my first thought was – “my grandfather’s little black book!” Like those for Susan Carruthers, my thoughts of grandpa’s book had been put aside for quite awhile now.

I took a week from work using the excuse that my aging mother was not doing well. I drove all night and 14 hours later, finally arrived at our old farm the next afternoon. I threw open the screen door and stepped into the kitchen, up to my mother, who was still at the counter inquiring about my projects at work. I answered truthfully this time, “Pretty good mom.” I shuffled past her, offering a high-five, which she accepted. As quickly as I had entered this safe place, I was out the back door. The door of the back shed still creaked as I pushed it open. I propped the crowbar against it. My cellphone light shone directly onto the metal box I was looking for. “Still there,” I muttered. I remained calm. I tingled as I reached for the book, remembering, past events. I held the book and set it down. I turned the pages and reminisced over some of my grandfather’s writing. I stopped on a page that had a five-digit money figure written on it. Without thinking, I brushed my fingers over the numbers. As I did, I heard the back door fly open and my mother scream to me, “I think you better come in here now, son. Something amazing has just happened!!”