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The Cellar

(A Childhood Memory)
 
 "Stay away from that filthy cellar," Mother always told us.  However to us that
 cellar was a temptation.  When Mother was busy upstairs we would nod in
 agreement and head to the kitchen.
 
 The heavy wooden door was bolted up high where children should not be able
 to reach, but with a good stretch on tippy-toes could barely grasp the rusty bolt
 and slide it back.  The tarnished brass door knob no longer latched properly, so
 when the bolt released the heavy door swung open with an angry creak.
 
 Breathlessly we would listen for Mothers' shout and if it didn't come we would  
 quickly slip through the door, pulling it behind us, but leaving it slightly ajar to
 provide a glimmer of light.  There was no light switch, only a bare bulb at the
 bottom of the stairs with a pull string that was too high to reach.  We would wait
 a moment to let our eyes adjust to the dimness, then creep down the rickety
 stairs guided by the old wooden banister that left painful splinters in our hands.
 On the left the concrete wall supported us, cold and rough to our small fingers
 with rocky crevices that hid spiders and other creepy crawlies.  Chills would
 go up our backs when our hands came in contact with clingy spider webs.
Occasionally a pebble detached from the concrete and clinked down each tread
 until it landed on the dirt floor with a soft plop.
 
 There were thirteen steps.  We soon learned to avoid the third, seventh and
 tenth, because their loud protests could awaken the dead.
 
 By the time we reached the dirt floor our eyes had grown accustomed to the
 dim light provided by two tiny, grimy windows curtained with cobwebs.  A small
 beam struggled to enter the cellar, lighting up millions of dancing dust
 particles.
 
 When it had rained a musty dampness prevailed.  In some parts of the cellar,
 the walls were moist and chilly where water soaked through tiny cracks.
 
 Beneath one window was an old coat rack.  A few long forgotten coveralls
 hung there.  They smelled oily and slightly mildewy from the dampness.
 In one corner stood floor to ceiling shelves loaded with an assortment of cans
 with paint drips on the outside showing a rainbow of colors.  A sharp, pungent
 smell of turpentine came from jars filled with sticky old brushes.  There were
 some tools too--a rusty saw with crooked teeth, a hammer with a broken
 handle, jars with nuts and bolts, and many other fascinating gadgets.
 
 Next to the shelves was a wooden bin that was once used to store potatoes.
 A powerful stench of musty, rotting potatoes rose from the bin.
 
 There was an eerie quiet in the cellar.  Flies trapped against the window buzzed
 angrily to escape.  Outside, branches occasionally scratched against the window
 in a rhythm created by the wind.  In the winter the huge furnace in the
 centre of the cellar hummed steadily.
 
 In the far corner behind the furnace were piles of boxes with old toys and an
 ancient trunk filled with old-fashioned clothes, moth eaten and mildewed.
 Sometimes a mouse would scamper away as we pulled clothes from the trunk,
 or a daddy longlegs would crawl from amidst the clothes and send us scurrying
 with a startled cry.
 Too soon we would hear the creaking floorboards overhead and realize Mother
 was looking for us.  We would hurry upstairs as quietly as possible.
 But she always knew!  Could it be the smudges on our faces or the dust on our
 clothes that told of our secret explorations?

                                           Marion de Man

*****

 

 

  
 

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May 25. 2003
Copyright / Design By
Marion de Man

  
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