Thanks for visiting Unlocking the Attic. I would like to introduce two new blogs I’ve added to my repertoire in 2011.

eQuipped is a site devoted to cyber-safety and designed for parents and educators. It is a good place to start for those who may not feel confident about the internet and keeping kids safe. Please visit eQuipped and be sure to recommend it to friends with children.

Ink, Sweat & Tears chronicles my journey as a writer. That adventure began (in earnest) a few years ago as a novice blogger when I set up Consonance. I’ve made some progress and learned a bit since then. Several manuscripts down the road, I find myself seeking to specialise a bit more. Ink, Sweat & Tears is my writer’s travelogue.

Although nearly two years had passed since her fiancé died, she still wore black. Mourning is never becoming to a young woman, but Alice Moreton fared better than most. There, sitting in the stark room, she made me think of a crocus blooming in a snow drift.
          We sat in the front parlour, I stiff on the settee and she straight-backed on the armchair opposite. The room was a vault, sealed off from the life that streamed noiselessly by the front window. Only the insistent ticking of the mantel clock disturbed the silence.
           Her slender fingers traced the words Holy Bible on the cover of the mangled book I’d passed to her. She stared at the sickening hole, pulped and bloodied. She drew in a breath, but she said nothing.
          The clock marked time.
          In my head, words swirled, pooling and scattering, refusing to form into complete sentences. I’d rehearsed this conversation ever since Tom died. Maybe if… I clenched my eyes shut in an effort to halt my demons.
           When I opened my eyes, I found Miss Alice looking at me.
          “I’m sorry, Mr Truman. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just so shocking,” she said, glancing at the pocket Bible in her trembling hand.
           “Tom and I had an agreement…” I swallowed hard as visions of muddy trenches, exploding shells, and open-eyed corpses flared in my mind. “…if anything were to happen.”
           Her gaze returned to the small book in her lap.
           “He told me to tell you he loved you more than life itself, Miss. He told me to tell you he would not want you wasting your life in sorrow and your beauty in mourning clothes.”
          Her fingers floated to the collar of her black dress.
          “He told me he would want you to move on, to find love, to get married–”
           She winced, and her lovely face contorted. “How?” Her eyes searched my face.
           I shrugged. “Live—because of your love for him.”
           Doubt clouded her face.
            I stood. Leaning on my cane, I made my confession. “I owe him my life, Miss. He’d told me about Jesus and lent me his Bible. Made me promise to read it, but I just tucked it in my breast pocket and forgot about it.” I opened my palm to reveal a flattened German slug, the same size as the hole in the Bible’s pierced cover.

A 400-word short story to celebrate the 400th Anniversary of the King James Bible, the world’s best selling book.

At the sound of spit slapping against the dead woman’s face, bowed heads bobbed up. The minister opened his mouth, shut it again, and fidgeted with the edges of his clerical stole. Family members, who were resettling on the front pew after having paid their final respects, turned to identify the desecrator.

 All eyes fell on the grey-haired man who stood, trembling, before the open casket. With his back still to the room of mourners, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He replaced it, refolded, in his pocket and turned to face the angry stares.

Around the chapel mourners leaned together for a murmured consultation. “Who’s that?”

“Never seen him before.”

“It’s amazing what will crawl out of the woodwork for a funeral…”

The man scanned the room, jaw set. His gaze stopped at the widower, Bill Perdu, 79, an old-school gentleman and cornerstone of the community. Bill, whose numbness impeded the possibility of reaction, stared back, eyes vacant of recognition or understanding. Slowly, his mouth dropped open. He knew.

The stranger watched as Bill swallowed hard, as his eyes averted to the left, as his shoulders slumped.

A middle-aged son and a son-in-law grasped Bill’s shoulders in reassurance. The younger sons further along the front row squared their shoulders and puffed their chests, while their old father seemed to shrivel up, like an autumn leaf in time-lapse photography.

The bewildered minister stepped forward with an apologetic cough, poised to utter something conciliatory. The outsider raised a hand to stop him. A quake of emotion distorted his face and strangled him. Words would not form; tongue would not loose; teeth would not unclench. He screwed up the photocopied bulletin in his left hand and dropped it before stalking up the aisle.

Bill’s oldest daughter Shirley had her hand on her father’s right forearm. She looked into his eyes, seeking an explanation, but all Bill could give her was a sad shake of his head. The silence pulsated with tension.

“Wait–” Bill finally choked out. He hobbled on arthritic feet after the stranger.

 The man froze halfway down the aisle but didn’t turn around.

“Wait. Stay–with us. Sit with me. We’ll talk afterwards. I–I wanted to find you, to tell you she was dying …but…” Bill sighed. “Please. She would have wanted this.”  He gestured toward the pew where the family was seated.

A tear slid down the man’s face. He turned and faced Bill.

A hand was extended. The stranger just stared at it until Bill lowered his hand with a sorrowful nod. The two men walked to the front row. Robert Perdu squeezed against his younger brother Allen to make room in the pew for the stranger. The man sat down, rigidly leaning away from the Perdu men. 

Pulling his handkerchief out, Bill went to the casket to dab Eleanor’s face clean. He kissed his finger tips and laid them on her lips, and said, “There you go, my love. We’re all here now. Even Adam.”

Bill took his seat next to Adam, the son the nuns took from Eleanor when she was sixteen, disowned and all alone, the son ever remembered but never found.

The minister raised his hands in benediction. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to honour the memory of Eleanor Mara Perdu, wife and mother…”

“…So, as I was saying, old chap, I spent a fortnight in the doldrums around Melanesia; then a storm swept in and tore off my mainsail and left me with nothing but my umbrella to use as a paddle!” I gestured to my trusty black umbrella leaning against a nearby palm. “Stroke of good luck to have drifted into your little lagoon, wasn’t it?”

My host merely grunted, so I continued. “I must say: I’m so impressed with the hospitality of your tribe! How kind of you to provide a nice hot bath for a weary traveller.”

“Jamooda-kully-wadoo-wadoo!” said my host. He thumped the tall pole he was holding into the sandy ground, rattling the strands of knuckle bones and shells hanging off of it. His headdress of animal jaws and feathers trembled as he spoke. “Kama-dadi-quappa,” he said, adding another log to the fire beneath my bath.

“Hmm? Well, I’m not sure I understand, but I suppose you’re concerned that my bath is not too hot.”  Although the outdoor bath was a bit cramped for my lanky British frame, I didn’t complain. “No need to worry, my dear fellow! The bath is absolutely lovely—a bit of respite after having spent several weeks lost at sea.”

A toothless, old woman appeared out of nowhere and approached the bath. Embarrassed, I sank down lower in the water. With an approving pinch of the flesh around my shoulder, she threw some Frangipani blossoms and bath salt into the water.

“I say! How delightful! Some local aromatic petals to scent my bath! I’ll be restored to my former glory after this lovely soak.” I nodded my appreciation to the wizened old woman. She drew her weathered face into a great, gummy grin.

“Jamooda-kully-wadoo WADOO!” my host with the wooden staff added, quite emphatically. She muttered a reply, before disappearing into the foliage beyond the bathing circle.

The old woman returned again and handed me a coconut shell and nodded. “Makku, soli-soli!” The gummy grin appeared again.

“Oh? A drink? How kind.” Inside the coconut shell cup was a green, foamy concoction that smelled of pond mud. I hesitated, but she beckoned me to drink. “An island brew, no doubt! Well, down the hatch, as they say!”

 The old woman watched me intently.

PFFTTTtt! I spat the ghastly brew out. “Good heavens! That’s revolting!” A gritty, bitter residue clung to my tongue and lips.

 The old lady’s grin dissolved into a steely scowl. My heart lurched in my chest: I felt dreadful that I might have insulted her. “Lovely cup,” I stammered, as I handed the coconut shell back to her.

“Bandoo fari-fari. Whopali-mai!!” she screamed and stamped her foot before stalking off. The big fellow stepped forward and grabbed the cup from my hand and flung it in the nearby ferns. He folded his huge arms across his chest and glared down at me in my bath.

I cringed under his gaze. “Oh dear,” I muttered. Oddly, my lips and tongue were tingling and quickly growing numb. At the same time I winced at the glare of the sun in my eyes.

“I thay…” My tongue flopped in my mouth like a dying fish. “Could I throuble you to hand me my parathol, right there.” I pointed at the trusty black umbrella.

“Mitti-mooty-mandalop!” he said without budging from his post, even though the umbrella was within his reach. His gaze cut right through me.

I scratched my beard, perplexed at his obstinacy. “By George, I’ve got it! Of courth—you’ve never theen an umbrella. Well, I athure you, old chap, ith quite thafe.” I stretched out to reach for the umbrella and stood to my feet. No sooner had I grasped it than the old woman returned again. There I was, dripping and stark naked, but for some wilted frangipani blossoms plastered to my skin. I thrust open the umbrella for privacy.

 The sight of the opening umbrella made my host drop his staff in alarm, and his bride threw up the tray of vegetables she had julienned for me. They both tore off into the jungle, screaming.

Parading behind my open umbrella for modesty’s sake, I went in search of my clothing and hosts. I discovered my shirt and trousers hanging in a smoky, mud hut. I must say: the odd structure had the most peculiar decor. Hung from the rafters were hundreds of shrunken heads with long hair and eerie beards, not too dissimilar from mine.

“What do you think of this one?” Eloise ran her fingers over the handle of the stylish stroller. The futuristic three wheel design was practical and light. “Nice.” I lifted it to judge its sturdiness for use on my early morning jogs. “Not too heavy for you and the big wheels are a bonus for me.” I scanned the price tag and winced.

Before I could suggest a cheaper model, Eloise said, “I’ll find a sales assistant.” My wife kissed my cheek, her bulbous belly skimming my back as she waddled past me. Stranded in the flotilla of perambulators, I tried to be useful, wrestling with the catch to fold up the chosen stroller. Instead of folding, the stroller divided like an eager ameba. Its removable sun shade snapped off in my hands. As I bent over to reassemble the stroller, I chuckled over the irony of a mechanical engineer like myself who was confounded by baby equipment.

“Here, sir, let me help you,” the approaching sales assistant said. I looked up from the mechanism and to my shock found that assistant my wife had brought back was Alexis Noble, a former lover of mine.

She looked startled. “Jack Freidman! Oh my God. –You look great.”

“Alexis–you too. You haven’t changed a bit.” I paused, noting the sweat breaking out on my palms. “This is my wife, Eloise.” I could feel my neck burning. Suddenly my collar felt tight.

Eloise threw a bemused look my way before acknowledging Alexis. “Hi. Nice to meet you. You two know each other?” Eloise said with a teasing smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Alexis and I knew each other way back. Way back.” I gave a nervous laugh. Swallowing was difficult, suddenly. A trickle of icy cold sweat ran down my spine.

“Not that long ago. We were–we knew each other in college,” Alexis said to Eloise. Then, she addressed me, “How long have you been in LA? I thought you’d never leave Charlotte.”

“I landed an executive job with Honeywell a few years back.”

“Well done. I predicted you’d be successful.”

Eloise seemed to be growing impatient, rightfully so. It’s not every day your husband runs into the woman he abandoned at the altar. Eloise didn’t know that particular episode of my past; I’d never even revealed that I had been previously engaged–let alone that I couldn’t face my fiancée to tell her I couldn’t go through with it. It was something I had effectively blocked out of my own memory, so strong was my shame.

Here I was, in the awkward position of standing between two important women in my life. I feared that Eloise had already correctly appraised the intensity of my relationship with Alexis. I thought I detected a tinge of curtness in her voice as she asked, “So, about this stroller. Does it come in any other colours?”

Alexis ignored my wife’s tone, taking her time. Given Alexis’s predilection for scandal, I knew she was sizing up whether or not to make a scene. She pointed to the product information card attached to the handle and said, “All of the options are listed here.” Her gaze came back to me with a smug smile.

I gulped and found myself scanning the department store for emergency exits. No matter how well I handled this situation, I was in trouble. The jilted ex-lover would reveal my past indiscretions to the adoring wife who only knows me as reliable, steady and honorable. And the pregnant wife was living proof in Technicolor and full Dolby surround sound that, despite my previous claims to the contrary, I am in fact “the marrying kind.” It seemed the best option was to flee.

“You know what? I don’t think this one will do. Alexis, it’s been great to see you, but I don’t want to keep Eloise on her feet too long.” I said all of this while gently steering Eloise through the maze of baby buggies towards the aisle. I added in a stage whisper over my shoulder, “Her ankles swell up like ciabatas and it’s all over.”

“Hey!” Eloise halted and whacked me on the arm. “I like that stroller. It’s cute. Let’s just get it and we’re finished baby shopping.”

I was flustered. My ears began to ring, and I couldn’t form a sentence. “Come on, get out your American Express,” she prompted. Like a blithering idiot I proceeded to the checkout, needing to be led by my heavily pregnant wife. Alexis, meanwhile, rang the storeroom and arranged to have a stroller delivered to the pick up bay at the back of the department store. While she was engaged on the phone, Eloise smiled up at me. Her previous irritability had disappeared, as it always did when I was dispensing money for her benefit. “It’s a gorgeous stroller. You’ll be able to push the baby when you go for your jogs.” I tried to smile back at her.

All that remained was for me to sign the receipt and escort my wife out of the shop. Freedom was within sight, and so far Alexis had exacted no revenge. Maybe she’d cooled down, moved on. It had been something like 5 years since I disappeared on her, leaving nothing but a note saying “I’m sorry. I’m just not the marrying kind. You deserve a man who wants and likes kids.” I’d left her and North Carolina behind, like the frontier men of earlier centuries, heading west to escape dogged regrets and an uneasy conscience. A new job cured my woes, keeping me too busy to mull over my past misdeeds. For the most part, I managed to keep niggling thoughts of Alexis Noble at bay. If I did happen to think about her, I imagined her living in Florida, married to a professional golfer or property mogul. Big house, cute kids. It was a little fairytale I’d concocted to ease my conscience; yet, here she was in front of me, no ring on her finger, working for minimum wage in the baby equipment section of a mid-range department store in the suburbs of southern California. A far cry from “happily ever after.”

Eloise wandered a few feet away to fawn over baby clothes. Once I was certain she was fully focused on that task, I ventured a peek at Alexis. She still looked amazing, with her lean, athletic figure and a great set of bronze legs. My eyes travelled up her body, arriving at her face, only to find her glaring at me. The disdain on her face made me quiver.

“Sign here.” She slid the receipt across the counter. “May I see your credit card?” I’d just returned it to my wallet, but dutifully retrieved it. She compared the two signatures, perfunctorily, but lingered as if she wasn’t sure if the two matched. Her scrutiny, however fabricated, achieved its intended effect: making me feel dishonest and vulnerable.

In a businesslike voice, as she handed back my card, she added, “Thank you.” She looked down and the façade crashed, revealing a pitiful brokenness. The sight of that sadness was utterly unbearable. A violent urge to apologise, to admit how much I regretted that I’d treated her so shabbily, surged through me, making me shift from one foot to the other. My hands reached out, wanting to offer consolation, then fell back, not wanting to arouse suspicion in my wife. “I…er…I wish…” I stammered, trying to find words that matched the maelstrom of emotions inside of me.

She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears. She cleared her throat and looked up. “For 7 years, 3 months and 4 days, I’ve fantasized about this moment,” she said bitterly. “About the things I’d say to you… The scene I’d make and how I’d feel as I’d watch you squirm.”

I felt my face blanch as I realised no apology would suffice, ever.

“Now, after all these years, the opportunity presents itself, and, damn it, all I feel is pity. For her.” She nodded towards Eloise. Alexis swept past me, heading over to where Eloise was cooing over a baby dress. “All the best with your baby,” Alexis said softly as she passed behind my wife.

“Oh, thanks.” Eloise glanced up from the outfits. “Nice to have met you,” Eloise called over her shoulder, but Alexis was gone. Eloise waddled over to me, her back arched and her hand on her lower back in that particular pregnant lady pose. Her full face was glowing with good health and contentment. “She seemed sweet. How come you’ve never mentioned her?”

“Well, that was amazing,” Marina said, with a satisfied sigh.  The waiter cleared away her plate and then mine.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.  My senior partner at the firm has been raving about this place for years.  He said he’s never had a bad meal here. The chef is fromPalermo.”

“Ah, Palermo. You know, the Sicilians love their food. My ex-husband was from there.”  She leaned in closer and said, sotto voce, “He could cook like a god, but he was a brute–a vicious mafioso.”  She barely uttered the last word, mouthing it instead and making a cutting gesture across her neck.

I smiled.  I could feel the wine loosening me up a bit, as I’d hoped.  Between the two of us, we had polished off a bottle of Chianti, and I think I’d had drunk far more than my lovely date.  Marina Franco was a stunning woman for her age.  She had beautiful olive skin, large dark eyes and a pretty smile.  Like most Italians, she understood fashion and dressed with impeccable style. So far, I had truly enjoyed her company.  She was witty and easy to talk to, even considering the circumstances.  We were on a first date, and, despite the pleasant ambiance of Rocco’s Trattoria and her easy going nature, a first date could be nothing but a nerve-racking experience, especially after nearly 3 decades of not dating. I was back at it, after losing my wife of 27 years to cancer 18 months earlier.

The waiter reappeared at our table.  “Would you care for dessert?”  He began to hand us dessert menus.

“I couldn’t eat another bite, but I’d love a nip of Grappa.” Marina said, leaning forward slightly, her generous cleavage catching the flickering light from the candle on the table. I tried not to stare at her bosom, but I couldn’t help savouring the lovely, curvy view in front of me.  Desire stirred deep inside me, reawaking from its long, grief-induced slumber.

“Two glasses of Grappa,” I said to the waiter, who nodded and disappeared.  “Would you excuse me a moment?”  I said as I scooted my chair back.  I scanned the room, looking for the men’s room.  Marina nodded toward the far right corner, next to the door to the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

When I returned to the table, Marina snuffed out her half smoked cigarette and put the ashtray on the table behind us.  It hadn’t occurred to me that she was a smoker until that moment, and the discovery left me a little confused and disappointed.  I have an ex-smoker’s intolerance of the smell of cigarette smoke.  She didn’t seem to notice my reaction.

“Sit.  Enjoy your Grappa.”  Her smile was warm and inviting, a bubbling, hot Jacuzzi ready to be dived into. “Have you ever tried it?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s lovely–strong though.”  She sipped hers and then lifted her glass in a toast. “To a lovely evening.”

“To a lovely woman.”  The effects of the Chianti bolstered my courage and I gazed into her beautiful, brown eyes. She smiled demurely in reply.

As I was about to sip my liquor, the waiter arrived, placing the bill folder squarely in front of me.  I hadn’t asked for it, and I frowned at his impertinence. “Sir,” he said as he gestured to the folder. Something seemed odd; I felt he held my gaze too long, as if he were trying to send me a telepathic message.  I slid the folder away, ignoring him, and looked again at my juicy companion.  Her level of enjoyment seemed to be faltering.

“My turn,” Marina said as she stood.  “I just want to powder my nose.  I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be waiting,” I called.  Was she bored, I wondered.

Damn the waiter and his rush. And he was still standing there, waiting for my blasted American Express card.   I looked at his name badge: “Adrian.” I had a mind to ring the management the next day and complain about the service.  I glared at him, as if to say, “Scram,” but he was resolute.  I decided the best way to get rid of him was to pay up, so I opened the folder.

Surprisingly there was no total on the bill.  Instead, there was a note scrawled across it that said, “Sir, do not drink the grappa–Spiked.”  I read it a second time and looked at the waiter.  He was sweating and looking nervously at the two-way door to the kitchen.

“Will that be all, sir?”  A smile was plastered to his face, his body rigid.  He strategically positioned himself with his back to the kitchen and then did the strangest thing: he mouthed the word, “Run,” and, holding his hand close to his body, he pointed to the exit.  Then he tipped over my glass of Grappa, feigning an accident. “Terribly sorry, sir.”  His eyes seemed to be imploring me.

“Young man, I don’t know what you’re implying, but I am not in the mood for games.”

He saw the women’s restroom door begin to open, and he pursed his lips. Very quietly, he urged, “You’ve got to leave, now. You’re in danger.  Go.  Go!”

I was baffled. A man of my age and status does not run out of restaurants without paying.  I’m a lawyer and  a citizen in good standing.

“Please go,” he said.  In a chilling whisper he added, “The chef is her husband and he’s a crazy, Sicilian bastard.  Go.”

I stood hesitantly. “But, the bill–”

He shook his head. “Run.”

I pulled two hundred dollar bills out of my wallet and threw them on the table as I fled.   I ran for my life, leaving the delectable Marina behind to face her brute of an ex-husband alone.  Disappointment and fear paled in comparison to the horror I felt at the discovery of the coward that I am.

When I got to my BMW parked a block away, it was about 10:50. Overwhelming, cloying loneliness swamped me as I climbed in.  Nancy, my wife, had been gone for 18 months, but a slight tinge of her perfume lingered in the car, previously hers, a 25th anniversary gift from me.  The faintness of her scent exacerbated my dejection.  Wild possibilities spun around my head: was Marina in danger? Had the waiter put himself at risk?  What would Marina think of such a coward?

I decided it would be irresponsible not to drive past Rocco’s.  Perhaps I could help, though I had no idea what I’d do if I happed upon a violent scene.  I could in no way become involved with the mafia; my career and good name would be ruined.  I pulled my car up in the alley that ran behind the restaurant and turned off the lights. I sat in the darkness, listening for sounds of a disturbance.  I scarcely breathed, in an effort to minimise the noisy crunch of the cream leather upholstery.    After 20 minutes the back door to Rocco’s creaked open.  An employee wearing a grimy apron brought out a bin and emptied it with an almighty clatter into the dumpster opposite the door.  He went back in, the door banging shut behind him unremarkably.

I woke with a start at the sound of a bang.  I rubbed my eyes and squinted at my Rolex, which read 12:45 am.  The noise had come from the back door of Rocco’s Trattoria being pulled firmly shut by a burly, balding man who was holding a ring of keys.  Rocco, I assumed, the jealous ex-husband.  A smoldering cigarette was wedged between his lips as he struggled with the lock.    He humphed and swore in Italian until it finally clicked shut.  He looked sinister, as he stood there finishing his smoke.  Poor Marina was no where to be seen. With a miserable sigh, I abandoned my half-baked notion of rescuing her.

After Rocco was well out of sight, I started the car and backed out to the street.  I’d driven three blocks and was waiting to turn left onto 77th when I noticed a couple kissing passionately under the street lamp on the corner.  “Lucky them,” I thought bitterly, envy getting the better of me.  As I rounded the corner, I glimpsed their faces.  Locked in the hungry embrace of Adrian the young waiter was Marina, with one of her shapely calves wrapped familiarly around his leg.

You’d think the life of a garden gnome is fairly straightforward, but I’m here to tell you it’s not. What you see is plain enough–a bright little statue quaintly situated in amongst the shady hedges or tucked in amongst the pansies, mint and myrtle, come rain or come shine, offering a dash of whimsy to an otherwise staid garden. What could be difficult about that, you may well ask.

What you don’t see–the things that go on by the light of the moon–are the bits that aren’t so straightforward.  It is a little known fact that garden gnomes are lunarly sensitive.  Not lunatics in the strictest sense of the word, but nearly so.  You see, the fuller the moon, the more enlivened garden gnomes become…

Once upon a time, Gnomes were royal sentries, the ancient equivalent of the Secret Service, offering loyal protection to kings and princes. A king with an entourage of Gnomes was an awesome sight and a force with which to be reckoned. No one could gain advantage while the Gnomes were on guard. They were immortal, sleepless creatures, ever vigilant, with keen eyesight, sharp minds, and a unique sixth sense that is hard to quantify, since humans have nothing like it.

 This peculiar Gnomish sense is called gnosis, from their word “to gno,” which means something like perceive, except that Gnomes have a physiological response to gnoing. When humans taste, their tongues are operational; when Gnomes gno, the hairs on their toes are operational. Similar to the manner in which animals sense threats, Gnomes gno when danger is lurking. They can sense malevolence, because its presence makes their toes tingle, and the tingling jostles them to swift, decisive action, even before their conscious mind has devised a plan.

As you can imagine, tingling toes in the presence of danger or evil is a very valuable skill. Kings and high ranking officials, both of whom tend to have lots of enemies and rivals, value this sense. In the days of kings and princes, Gnomes were highly sought after as royal sentries, with clans of Gnomes loyally serving dynasties for generations. It was a mutually agreeable situation: the kings were well protected and the Gnomes were highly esteemed and richly rewarded for their service.

And so it went throughout the centuries…until two particularly wicked wizards plotted to overthrow several kingdoms. Between the two of them, they devised a plan to render the kings and lords vulnerable so that the wizards and their hairy hordes could seize control and plunder their treasuries. The stroke of brilliance in their plan involved disabling the regiments of Gnomes with a dastardly spell. Gnomeless, the kings and lords would be helpless and easily conquered. With the kingdoms under their control, the two wizards could seize power and leave the kingdoms penniless.

For several years the two wicked wizards worked ceaselessly, perfecting their potions and practising their casting. When finally everything was ready, they picked a moonless summer night when the mightiest kings and lords of the continent were convening. Disguised as two world famous minstrels, the wicked wizards made an appeal to perform before the gathered royalty. The kings, weary from the mundane business of peacekeeping and arranging of alliance-enhancing marriages, were thrilled to enjoy some frivolity.

At once the Gnome Sentries toes were set a-tingle. However, the two wizards pretended with great effect to be bickering with one another, full of the jealous cattiness and histrionic spite of overly dramatic types, so the Gnomes would assume the malevolence they gnew was strictly between the two troubadours, rather than a threat to the convention of kings and lords.

Slightly uneasy, the Gnomes allowed the ostensibly famous minstrels to perform. It took all their Gnomish inner might to disregard the tingling of their toes. The two performers took up their instruments before an audience eagerly anticipating lively entertainment of songs and tales. Just as their first song ended, the wicked wizards suddenly cast their horrible spell, turning everyone in the room into stone–Gnomes included. The wizards, disguises discarded, quickly seized power, made loathsome decrees, and despoiled the kingdoms of all lucre. All of their plundering was exacted quickly, before the moon began to wax again.

When the sun arose the following morning, its early glow fell across the cold stony statues of men and Gnomes. The mortal hearts of kings and princes never quickened again; they lay where they fell, like alabaster statues toppled by marauding raiders. The immortal Gnomes, on the other hand, were destined by the spell to an endless cycle of petrifaction and resuscitation.

The bewildered citizens, seeing their fallen kings, panicked, quickly bundling up their families and meagre possessions and fleeing to far away lands in search of safety and peace. The wicked wizards cursed them as they fled, all the while figuring the absence of the citizens meant more land and goods for them and their hairy accomplices.

As the sun set that day and the sliver of moon rose in the summer sky, slowly the spell lost some of its grip. The petrified Gnomes could move their eyes, but that was all. Gazing about, they saw their ruined posts and wept cold tears down their cheeks of stone. With the rising of the sun, the Gnomes eyes hardened over. In their flinty daylight state, though they could not gno, they could think and dream and lament.

The next evening, the Gnomes found they could move their eyes and their lips, and so they cried and raged until they could make no sound at all. When the sun rose, again they turned to solid stone.

The next evening and the next, more and more of their bodies were released until finally when the moon was full, the Gnomes found they had complete mobility. Their sense of gnosis even quickened when their feet were freed from the cold stone. They hugged one another as they wept for the kings they loved so. Hastened by the foreboding they all gnew from the despotic rule of evil in that land, they quickly buried the fallen kings and princes in one nearby tomb, sealing its great door as the first morning rays fell on their backs. That day the sun rose and fell on a frozen crowd of sad-faced stone Gnomes, pushing against the tomb door.

As the moon waned each night that month, they lost their freedom little by little until finally with only a sliver in the late summer night sky, their mobility was restricted again to only their eyes. And so it has gone through the ages, the once mighty Gnomes gradually petrifying and reviving, re-petrifying and re-reviving, in sync with the moon and the tides.

Ever since those days of old, with each full moon, when maximum mobility and full gnosis is restored, the Gnomes have endeavoured to break the wicked spell. Their progress through the centuries has been excruciatingly slow, since they have only been mobile when the moon is full; however, Gnomish lore has it that within a matter of months from now, the Gnomes will have succeeded in breaking the spell, freeing them forever from the ancient magic and its associated lunar sensitivity. The Gnomes, released from their shackles of stone, will finally be free to rise from beneath the garden hedges and depart from patches of pansies, mint and myrtle and return to their rightful posts as Royal Sentries, or perhaps the Secret Service.

“Mother, this is Esther. She’s my daughter and she’s 8.”
“What a lovely child. Esther–that’s my name too.”
“That’s right. We named her after you.”
“After me? How lovely.” Esther the elder, my grandmother, sipped her tea, her cup softly rattling against the saucer in her shaky grip. She looked at us with an impish smile.
“And who is this lovely child, June?” Grandma asked my mother, pointing her gnarled finger at me.
“That’s Esther, my daughter. She’s 8,” mum said, without a trace of impatience.
“Esther–that’s my name,” she replied with pleasure. She smiled at me again.

I smiled at her, then sighed. Grandma was tiny and bent with papery, spotted skin and kind, watery eyes nestled deep in her wrinkled face. On our visits to the nursing home, we rarely got beyond my name and the endless intrigue it seemed to cause when she realised we both had the same name. I knew she would have this revelation another dozen times before we said our good-byes.

About a decade earlier, she’d suffered a massive stroke that wiped out her memory. Ever since, she has not been able to store new information or retrieve most of her memories. The present was fleeting to her, like water spiraling down a drain. The past was murky and evasive. She rarely finished sentences because she’d forget what she had intended to say. To most people, this was exasperating, but I did not have any expectations of how she should be, since I’d only known her this way: an old woman who was endlessly fascinated with my name.

“Get Grandma another biscuit, Sweetie,” mum prompted. She knew an 8-year-old would get fidgety quickly. I took my cue and darted over to the trolley that served the elderly residents their afternoon tea. I picked out an orange cream biscuit for me and a gingersnap for her, because I knew Grandma liked them best.

“Here you go, Grandma. A gingersnap, your favourite,” I said as I handed her the biscuit.
“Thank you, dear.” Then, looking at my mother, ” Who’s this sweet little thing?”
“That’s Esther, my daughter. She’s eight,” Mum said, on autopilot.
“Isn’t she precious? And we have the same name.” Smiling again.

A nurse walked over and bent down to my grandmother’s eye level. “Esther, would you like to play the piano for us?”
“The piano? Do you have a piano in this place?” She looked around incredulously.

After the crocheted lap blankets were removed, Esther the elder was gently hoisted up out of her recliner and led to the piano. Her slippered feet shuffled slowly across the linoleum floor, making a shoosh-shoosh sound. “Shoosh! Shoosh!,” Eunice, a spritely dementia patient, echoed the noise of the slippers and waved her hands ecstatically. Her dentures shifted in her jowls and she called out in her croaky voice, “Play us a tune Esther, something saucy!”

Grandma smiled benevolently at Eunice as she sat on the piano bench. Her shaky fingers settled on the keys and she cleared her throat. The chatter in the residents’ lounge died down, as if a conductor had raised his baton. Even the loquacious Eunice quieted, though her hands still waved about like an itchy octopus. I leaned up against my mother and dared not breathe as we waited for the magic to happen.

Esther the elder ran her fingers nimbly up the keys. “This was Earl’s favourite song,” she said to her audience, like a seasoned performer. And she began to play a beautiful melody, “September Song.” Earl was my grandfather. He had died in September two-years before Grandma’s stroke. The song was dramatic, swelling and fading. Esther was immersed in the music, lost in the moment, yet very much alive and well. Even I, a child of eight, could sense her love and longing for Earl and discern her discouragement with her present predicament. With every fibre of my being, I sat engaged in the music, finally able to know and understand Grandma Esther and hear her heart.

At the keyboard Grandma transformed from a bent and fragile woman with no memory of the past nor ability to engage with the present into a vibrant musician. She played complex pieces of many genres, segueing seamlessly from one beautiful piece to another. More miraculously, she could converse while playing. She could finish sentences. She could make connections and store information. It was as if contact with the keys were some sort of magical conduit to sanity, to memory, to functionality.

My mum would sit and listen to her mother’s music, tapping her foot, smiling and transported by Grandma’s melodies to another happier time. Sometimes out of the corner of my eye, I’d glimpse a quiver of lips and a solitary tear run down Mum’s cheek… while Grandma played the piano.

When the songs came to an end and the meagre applause of the aged died down, Esther slowly stood up, puffed from the exertion. Her spirit instantly retreated and her memory disintegrated. The disengaged, ravaged shell of my grandmother was all that remained.

We’d hug her gently as we made our way out and she’d pat my hand and say, “Who is this?”

I remember treasure hunting in my grandparents’ attic. Shrugging off the creepy feeling the place evoked, I would climb the creaking stairs, dodging empty buckets and hardened string mops and stepping over stacks of yellowed sheet music, to reach that curious upper room.

It had a totally different atmosphere to the rest of the house–either hotter than the rest of the house or colder, depending on the season. The stale air smelled spicy sweet, a musty bouquet of cedar and dust. Regardless of what time of year it was, a veil of dust shrouded the offcast furnishings and old luggage. An army of dead bug carcasses littered the window sills at either end of the room, like POW’s left to rot in murky prisons. The dim light, dark eerie corners and low, sloping ceiling induced vague claustrophobic sensations in the pit of my stomach, which strangely added to the excitement.

In my short childhood, I’d made a couple of treks up to that mysterious shadowy retreat and each time I unearthed something delightful. Once I discovered Mom’s wedding dress encased in a white plastic garment bag. I was entranced. What on earth was a beautiful white gown doing in this dusty place? And more to the point–why hadn’t I been granted playing privileges with this gown? I begged for Mom to let me take it home and try it on. And when I got it home I paraded around in it, veil and all. There are some pictures of me standing in front of the mirror in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, my little pink pyjamas peeking through at the shoulder.

On another attic expedition I discovered a box with curious scrawl on the lid. My mother told me it said: “For Alison” in Gram’s handwriting. I (Alison) had discovered little girl’s equivalent of the Mother Lode. Sometime before she died, she had packed up her cut crystal for me. There was a sugar bowl and creamer and a pedestal candy bowl with a dome lid. The bowl and the lid both had a zigzag edge, like shark teeth, that fit together. None of it was my mother’s taste–she said it was “atrocious” or some other negative word. I liked it simply because I’d found it in the attic with MY name on it.

One time I found a small green suitcase with a pair of pointy pink silk covered stilettos tucked inside, another great find. They were so different to the chunky, square-toed shoes of the seventies. These were so elegant, so refined, like the ones Doris Day wore in the old movies. I tromped around in those shoes for the rest of the day. Finding them reminded me of the tin of costume jewelry in Gram’s bedroom closet. I always loved playing with those things, even though the tin smelled odd, salty and pungent, like unwashed seashells. The tangle of necklaces and clip on earrings revealed shells and seeds, baubles and beads. One special silver chain held a small glass ball which housed a mustard seed. I always asked if I could keep the things I found. Usually Mom said no, probably not wanting the mess in her house (something I completely understand now, but thought was so unfair back then.) She let me keep the suitcase. She told me it was called a “train case,” for a lady’s make-up and toiletries when she travelled. I had that train case for years.

Someone would always warn me about wasps or the filth up in the attic, but I paid no heed. Wasps or no wasps, attics were, in my mind, wonderful places, brimming with curios and laden with treasures just waiting to be discovered. Poppy’s attic was slightly creepy too, which heightened the thrill. What about that spooky closet in the corner…what was behind the door? I’d get dizzy just glancing at its menacing doorknob.