Clifford Fryman

The brass lock on the door had fed my imagination for years. As a boy, it had been the curiosity of what lay behind a closed door. As I grew older, it had been the mystery of why I’d never seen anyone open it. Finally, the strange location of the locked door alone had been enough to keep my mind working.

The old shed had been Grandpa’s favorite spot. It had a roof of used tin that had to be covered in tar to keep the rain out, three walls pieced together with a variety of salvaged materials, and a front open to the elements. Inside, on a dirt floor, was the stove Grandpa had made using an old fifty-five gallon barrel. And in the back corner, the room with the locked door.

Now, standing before it, all those years of wondering were about to end. All I had to do was use the key I held in my hand. I looked around the building at all the tools and odds-and-ends hanging from the rafters and on the walls: axes, chainsaws, fishing poles, and many other valuable items, all left out in the open. I contemplated once again what Grandpa had felt was important enough to lock up.

Despite the age of the lock the tumblers inside worked smoothly and silently as I inserted the key and twisted. It fell open with hardly a sound. Excited, yet still hesitant, I took my time removing it from the latch, removing the key, and sliding both into the front pocket of my jeans. Assuring myself one last time Grandpa wouldn’t mind me going in now that he was gone, I pushed the door open.

The hinges squeaked slightly as the door swung open to reveal a small room shrouded in darkness except for a few small shafts of sunlight spilling in from un-patched holes in the tin roof above. Dust particles danced as my eyes became accustomed to the lack of light. All I could make out were the outlines of a workbench and shelving. I reached for the flashlight in my back pocket and stepped inside.

The room was smaller than it had seemed to be from the outside, no more than five feet wide by eight feet deep. There was barely room to walk the length of it between the bench on the left hand side and the shelving lining the wall on the right. A vise was mounted to the end of the bench closest to me and a few tools were neatly organized along the rest of its length. The shelves were packed with items not discernable without a closer inspection. Grandpa’s long absence because of the cancer was apparent in the thick coat of dust that covered everything.

As I worked my way between the bench and shelves, the flashlight’s beam lit up different items–an old twenties era radio, a wine glass made of blue-tinted glass, a carved tobacco pipe, a pair of black baby shoes with silver buckles, a wooden baseball bat darkened by age, an ornate Indian-beaded necklace made of turquoise, and a small crystal vase.  As I looked at the random collection I couldn’t help but think of the small second hand shops that lined downtown Main Street. Puzzled, I tried to figure out what importance any of the items ever had that would justify their being locked away behind the door and brass lock.

Moving the beam of light beneath the workbench, I discovered larger items stored away there. As I reached out and touched the handlebar of an antique tricycle, a bright light flashed and the room dissolved away.

I stood on a long gravel driveway lined on both sides by young cedar trees casting their dancing shadows in the sunlight. It was the driveway leading to my Grandparents’ house. The trees were younger, but it was unmistakable. A young blond-headed boy came up the drive on a red tricycle and a man dressed in khaki work clothes walked behind him. The boy smiled as he pedaled toward me and the man laughed and clapped his hands as he watched him. I recognized them from old photos in the family album Mom kept stored away in a box beneath her bed. It was my Grandpa and my uncle.

The scene faded when I let go of the tricycle. Shaken, I looked around the small dark room. Not sure what had just happened, but wanting to find out, I blew the dust from the small crystal vase and tentatively placed my fingers on it.

Grandpa appeared before me again, even younger than before, standing on a large front porch, knuckles rapping on the door. He turned to gaze out over the railing at the end of the porch to the meadow that lay beyond it. In his rough hand he held a crystal vase with a single long-stemmed yellow rose in it. He hid it behind his back as the door opened and a young woman greeted him. It was Grandma, almost as she looked in the wedding picture that hung on the wall in their now empty house.

The scene faded again as I moved my fingers away from the vase. My hands trembled as I realized the importance these items had had for my Grandpa. Eager to learn more, I worked my way through them one-by-one. Each of them brought a vivid scene, from Grandpa’s first hunting trip with a Cherokee elder to my own birth. Hours passed as I discovered a side of my Grandpa he had rarely revealed when living.

Twilight filled the sky and tears swelled in my eyes as I walked out of the small room that night. With one last look, I took in the collection of items inside it before pulling the door closed. Fumbling in my pocket, I grasped the key and brass lock. With a quiet ‘clink’ I again locked away the memories of a life well lived and full of happiness.