Late middle age has crept up on me, and I can still honestly say it is the most terrifying nightmare I've ever had. In it, I am at a wake for my maternal grandparents. In reality, my grandmother died in the mid 1970s and my grandfather, years before her, in the mid-1930s.
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| Image by Teece Aronin |
At the wake, my grandparents are laid out in a wooden double coffin that looks oddly similar to a piano crate. My grandmother, looking like the 86-year-old she was when she died, is dressed in a snow-white wedding gown. My grandfather appears to be a young man, in keeping with his early death while still in his forties. Although he was not in the military that I know of, he is dressed in a muddy, wool, World War I uniform. It seems he died in battle and is being buried in the uniform he was wearing when killed. His hat lies under his hands which are folded across his stomach. His face and body appear to be those of a worn and battered store mannequin, hard to the touch with telltale chips all over.
The room is filled with people coming to pay their respects, and suddenly the crowd parts to reveal my grandmother, padding around barefooted. Her wedding gown is gaping in the back like a hospital gown, and she is dragging an IV pole around with her. I look to the piano crate/coffin to see that my grandfather is no longer there either. I'm both shocked and terrified, thinking that if my grandmother could rise from the dead, hop out of a combination piano crate and coffin and scamper off to join the party, there was no telling what my grandfather was up to.
Then a voice, a sort of Hercule Poirot presence, makes an announcement. He tells the crowd that my grandfather's corpse has been stolen and that both thief and corpse are still somewhere on the premises.
Like someone who has fought her way to the surface of a deep and murky pond, I smash back into wakefulness. I am shaken but confident that my grandparents are securely ensconced, side by side in the cemetery - and not in one huge double-sized grave - just two nice regular-sized graves - as any long-dead married couple should be.
Doors can be dangerous. On their surface, they come off as silent stewards of privacy and sentries against intruders. At their most innocent, they make lovely additions to your home. |
| Image by Teece Aronin |
But the reality of doors can be ominous. The other day, as I reached to push open the door of my doctor's office, someone tentatively opened then closed it from the other side. This tipped me off to open the door cautiously. Standing on the other side was a bespectacled lady in her eighties. We exchanged pleasantries as I swung the door wider and almost nailed another lady who looked a bit like the first and was at least as old.
"Whoops," I said. "Nearly got two for one!"
One of the ladies commented that their placement, combined with my entrance, had indeed presented a rare opportunity for me, assuming I was in to little old lady tipping.
I once nearly got myself killed by my garage door, and I can think of at least one slasher movie where a teen was done in when the killer used one to crush her head against the door frame. For the life of me, I can't remember the exact circumstances around how my garage door almost did me in. All I remember was that the door was up and I needed to be both out of the house and leave the door closed. Who knows what had happened to the garage door opener.
So I stood by the door that led to the kitchen, pushed the garage door button, and ran. The door began a rattly descent and a few feet from it I bent over and thrust myself beneath. Then I lost my balance. By the time I hit the ground I had picked up quite a bit of momentum and couldn't stop rolling until the tree in the front yard stepped up to help.
Flash-forward twenty years and I'm at another door inside another garage leading into another kitchen. My son's in this house having just spent the night here with his friend, Giles and the home belongs to Giles' grandparents. The house is huge and so is the garage. There is a two-car garage door with a one-car garage door next to it. The two-car door is up and the one-car is down.
I press what I think is the doorbell but the smaller garage door opens. I'm embarrassed and don't want Giles' grandparents to think I'm messing with their garage doors. I fumble for the button and press again. This time the big door goes down. I press the button yet again hoping both doors reopen but only the small one goes up. When I press one last time, the bigger door goes up, the smaller one lowers.
I knock.
"Those doors can be confusing," says Giles' grandfather, letting me in.
I like Giles' grandfather.
