Short Stories Join free writing groups Register for updates About the Author: |
Grandma's Desk
 New Horizons by Judith Gibson |
It was an unsolicited and unnecessary opinion since Grandma's desk wasn't part of the earthquake claim. It was meant to be intimidating, negating the value of the other pieces, a ploy that would not work but was distressing nevertheless. The entire process was a rape of my personal life. I reminded myself to breathe. "Perhaps if you knew its history, you would perceive life differently."
"I don't care about its history. My job is to ascertain its value." He shifted, impatient with my explanation. I considered his discomfort, then my own. I decided to complete my statement.
"Its history is its value. You cannot confuse money with love." I pointed to the nick in the left front leg. "That was put there in 1828. It was fairly new then. My great, great, great Grandpa bought it as a present for my great, great, great grandma. See the roses etched on the back riser and on the drawers? He always brought her roses. The drawers were filled with rose scented stationary; a rose colored quill sat in the inkwell, even her seal was a rose.
"Of course, that doesn't account for that nick -- or does it? Their first child made it. He was three years old, riding his first trike, when he nicked that leg. His mama was writing a letter, and he was showing off. I suspect the letter waited while she dried his tears.
"That boy's daughter carved this. Don't you think her rose is as lovely as the originals? Oh, not as stylish perhaps but done with loving care, a present to her mother, who adored this desk and spent her days seated here, gazing out the window from time to time as she composed poetry. This carving inspired her to provide art lessons for her daughter, whose work later appeared on magazine covers of the day.
"That daughter was my great Grandma, who came west with the wagon trains. She brought this desk with her. She almost had to leave it behind on the plains of Nebraska when their oxen died. She chose to abandon her wardrobe instead when another family offered to share their Conestoga. Her diary -- a copy now resides in the pioneer museum -- was tucked safely within the left drawer. In the right were the sepia photos of her parents. She walked all day and wrote by firelight at night, describing the incredible beauty of the land, the freezing cold, her sore feet and the unmarked graves along the way, one of which was dug for her newborn babe, born in a storm and dying before morning.
"Her next child, who was my Grandma, survived, growing up amid the Mormons of Utah. Safer there, with fewer gun-toting outlaws and rabblerousing cowboys. Not much to draw them to the gentle, sober way of life. Not much to keep my grandmother either, who crossed the Mojave Desert in a Ford model A, driving on rutted roads and changing flat tires every few miles. Back then, folks gathered at the desert's edge, filling every available container with water while waiting for a convoy to form. They spent their days sitting in the sparse shade of rock formations and Joshua trees, babying their frail autos by traveling in the cool of night. Sitting askance in the rumble seat was this old desk.
 Behind Grandma's House by Don Ricks |
"When we visited, I used to watch her write. I can still see her today: soft, comfortable body bent over as she carefully formed each word of encouragement, her gray hair tied back but with a few rebellious wisps which always managed to escape.
"A moving van brought that desk to my mother's home after Grandma died. They wrapped it with care, calling it an antique. They left behind a card from a man who offered to refinish it. He wanted to remove all those scuffs and stains. Mama threw the card in the trash. She bought rose scented stationary, refilled the inkwell and wrote the history of this desk with the quill, its rose pink now faded to a dusty white. That history is in the other drawer, along with the sepia photos, the magazine covers, the map from Utah to Los Angeles, and the diary.
"Look out this window into my garden. I put the desk here so I can see the roses as I write. I like the contrast of old with my brand new computer, don't you? Makes me feel tied to the earth, able to look back over the generations, at the same time I'm using modern technology to write my stories. My previous computer didn't withstand the earthquake, but this old desk did. I never doubted it would.
"My hair is gray now, but my daughter's is golden blond. Won't she look nice sitting on this chair, cuddled in her robe while her rose colored pen reaches across the miles to those she loves? Her son already loves this desk, playing here with his finger paints when I'm not working. That splash of blue right there is his. I'm careful not to wipe it away.
"So you see, sir, you are wrong, this is the most valuable piece I own. Now, if you've seen enough, I'll show you to the door. I've got a story to write."
