After our emotions had settled some, Grandpa lowered himself to the ground one knee at a time. We always thought it was funny; in fact, we chuckled at the sound of Grandpa’s knees popping and cracking when he bent so low. When he finally reached the ground, he used both hands to help straighten his body out. Grandpa passed a muffled groan as he settled, and he beckoned to Brian without a single word. Brian crawled in close, and Grandpa hugged him more closely than he had ever hugged any of us. It was as if Grandpa had found some precious thing that had been lost, as if he needed to hold Brian forever, so he would not be lost again. I thought that Grandpa physically could not let go, but finally he relaxed. I saw tears in Brian’s eyes, but we never talked about that. I think he felt what Grandpa had tried to teach us all these years—fear of the other side.
We sat with Grandpa as he talked to us for the umpteenth time about what a colonnade was. Again, he told us not to crawl through the portico. Again, he warned us about the springtail armies. And, even though we had asked him every time what a portico was, and what a springtail army was, he said again, as he always did, “One day you’ll understand.” But this time, there was more. We held deep understanding of something we could not yet describe.
“We are all defined,” Grandpa began after a very short pause, “by the choices we make during our lives. The largest problem is that those who simply stand by and watch us make our choices are the people who do the defining.”
That came out of nowhere. Grandpa talked to us about many things, but he never preached to us. This was just another one of those things that made the day strange. So, we listened.
“Everything we do. Everything we are. Everything we say. The person y’are is defined by the choices ya make. Sarrah chooses ta whine, so you define her by that choice. Thomas chooses ta carry a microscope with him on these walks. You define him by that choice. I choose ta be good at what I do. I choose ta try ta teach ya skills that will get ya through life. I choose ta love my kids. You define me as the person you believe I am by the choices I make. You probably aren’t old enough yet, but one day you’ll find that some choices are very difficult ta make. One day you’ll hafta choose between right or wrong, and you’ll not even be able ta know the difference. You’ll hafta choose based on the feeling in your gut, or more likely, the feeling in your heart. You’ll simply hafta make the best choice ya can with the information ya have.”
Then, Grandpa did the strangest thing. He put Brian on the ground, stood as if pulled by invisible ropes, and walked us to the patch of devil’s club that guarded the most direct path to the house. “Look at this,” he said while he broke off a needle-sharp thorn that was maybe an inch long. Then he started dancing around like an aging sword fighter with this tiny, pointy thing. He parried and thrust and pointed and stabbed and poked. When Grandpa finally stopped dancing, he was almost panting. He held that tiny sword at about eyeball level and gave it the most thoughtful stare; all the while he breathed deeply and forcefully. At last, with the thorn still held in front of his dreaming eyes that glittered once again with the light of years ago, Grandpa said “Ya know? This would make a really great spear for a person about the size of a ladybug.” Then, almost reverently, he lowered his hand and mini-spear, bowed, and returned his thoughts to us.
Grandpa’s mood was clearly different that day. He was sad, or deep, or thoughtful. Melancholy would be a good description, but there was no good reason that any of us could see. When he finished staring at the devil’s club thorn, he asked us if we knew the way home. We did. Grandpa asked us to point toward home. We did. He asked us to show him the trail. We did that, too. Grandpa always tested us, but on this trip, he tested us three times. Something was definitely strange.
“Okay, kids,” Grandpa said. “This time, you lead the way home.” Thomas jumped up and started running toward the trail. “Me first! Me first!” he yelled. Brian darted close behind, but Thomas beat him to the path. Speed made absolutely no difference, though, because both boys stopped dead and started screaming when they hit the patch of devil’s club. Those thorns were sharp! Sarrah and I caught up a few seconds later and helped extract the boys from those long, pokey stickers, many of which had found their way into soft boy-flesh. I heard dad yelling from the deck, asking us if we were OK. I yelled back to assure him that we were.
The four of us worked to clear the path for Grandpa; we figured he was a little slower than us and would be slightly behind. We used sticks to hold the patch of spiny branches back and create a path for Grandpa to walk through, but he didn’t. Didn’t walk through, that is. We looked back to see where he was, but he was gone. We hollered for him, but he didn’t answer. We ran back to the maple tree, but he wasn’t there. We back-tracked the trail that we had just used, but Grandpa was nowhere to be seen.
We fought our way through the devil’s club and laughed all the way to the house, fully expecting Grandpa to be on the deck waiting for us, fully believing that he was testing us once again. Grandpa wasn’t there. Grandma had not seen him, and neither had our parents.
Grandpa vanished in these woods, Debbie. He disappeared from this very spot! We didn’t have a clue where he was.
*****
4. The Portico
It’s impossible for me to describe just how terrible the rest of the day was. Dad called the local police. They brought dogs. While the dogs were searching for Grandpa, other detectives asked us kids a thousand questions. They took us into separate rooms; asked us the same questions over and over for what seemed like hours. We all told the same story. We told them the truth. None of us saw Grandpa disappear. None of us knew anything. The police were unable to find Grandpa or any sign of him. The dogs found a scent trail that disappeared in the woods as mysteriously as Grandpa had. Those dogs sniffed every side of that tree Grandpa called the portico, but the scent stopped right there. Before he left, the policeman in charge spoke to dad for a few minutes. I saw dad’s head slump; he shook the policeman’s hand and closed the door. The house went silent. Whispered phone calls went out to a couple of neighbors. It wasn’t long before people began to arrive at the house: friends that came to comfort Grandma on this tragic day. Grandma cried long into the night. Sometimes her tears were silent. Sometimes we could hear her sobs throughout the house. We kids disappeared to the deck for awhile, then to a back bedroom. All four of us sort of passed out in a huddle. I don’t know about the others, but I do know that I cried myself to sleep in the starlit blackness of that room.
I remember exactly what we were talking about as tears and stress dragged me into blissful unconsciousness. What the heck is a portico? Grandpa told us a dozen times not to crawl through the portico, but he never told us what that meant. Why had his scent ended at that tree when Grandpa had warned us about it so many times? That was exactly like him. Grandpa often taught us lessons that we didn’t understand. And always, he recognized when we didn’t, so in the end he would say something like, “You’ll understand when the time comes.” Grandpa knew that the two most important skills we could have in life were asking questions and learning to find their answers. We were kids, though, and we often took shortcuts. Thomas, The Answer Finder, my brother was thirteen that summer. He was only two years older than me, and we kids already considered him to be a scientific genius. No one knows where he got his thirst for science; our parents went to college, but they were both far more interested in the social sciences than in the hard sciences. If we had a question, all of us kids went to Thomas. We were certain he would either know the answer, or he would find the answer. The answer he needed to find this time was, “What the heck is a portico?” It would have to wait until morning.
The smell woke me up. Bacon. Then I became aware of the sounds. Sizzling. Crackling eggs. Hushed whispers. I uncoiled from the huddle, took one of Grandpa’s T-shirts from a pile of laundry, and pulled it over my wrinkly, slept-in clothes. Then, I joined the crowd that gathered in the living room and kitchen. More friends had already come by to help Grandma. She wa
s still in her bedroom, but neighbors and friends had already arrived to provide any support she might need. This morning’s breakfast, Grandpa’s favorite meal, was going to be a social event. I gathered my hugs from family, shook the hands of friends I didn’t know, and sat at the table. I’m not sure how much time I had spent with friends and family, but apparently, and unknown to the rest of us, Thomas had been spending that time on Grandpa’s computer.
“YeeeeeHaaaawwwww!” Thomas’ enthusiastic howl sliced through the wake-like mood. He vaulted from the den, sprinted through the hallway, and skidded to a stop in Grandma’s living room. It made no difference to Thomas that the house was filled with strangers. All of them shot wide-eyed stares at the brash, young man dressed in a wrinkled and dirty T-shirt, tighty-whities, and gray socks that were supposed to be white. Their jaws dropped another notch when he yelled, “I’ve ascertained what a portico is! It’s a particular type of colonnade!” I watched a couple of people I didn’t know gawk as if to say, “Whaaaa?” I was almost embarrassed. “Shhhhhh! Thomas! Some respect, please. Grandma is still asleep,” I scolded. But she wasn’t. As I said the words, I looked toward the hallway to see a sleepless, red-eyed Grandma hiding behind a forced smile. She practically floated to Thomas. She hugged him from behind and kissed the top of his head. “Good morning,” she cracked. I could feel her voice shake. Thomas tucked his chin while Grandma hugged him tighter. At first, I thought he was expressing some remorse for yelling like a wounded rabbit, disturbing the house’s unnatural silence. Soon, his bright eyes peeked from below his dipped forehead, and I could see the excitement straining to be released from Grandma’s morning hug. “Apologies,” Thomas said as he raised his head while flashing Grandpa’s knowing smile, “but, I’ve discovered relevant information about what Grandpa was teaching us. He didn’t enlighten us about everything. I can further develop his thoughts.” No one knows how he found all those answers over the years, but Thomas had his ways. Still does, for that matter.
Our parents and Grandma looked at us as if we were crazy. They had no idea what a portico was, or a colonnade. More to the matter, they had no idea why we kids even cared. They had no idea that this discussion was about a secret world that Grandpa shared only with his grandkids. My excitement level shot straight up like the strong-man’s bell at a county fair. I shoveled my last bite of egg into my mouth, stuffed in a whole piece of bacon, threw six more pieces of bacon on three pieces of toast, and I ran. I couldn’t catch Thomas, though. He had already broken free of Grandma’s hug and had flashed down the hall to gather Brian and Sarrah. I remember thinking how it was fortunate that Grandma had moved out of the way. I’m sure the adults in the room were totally confused. Regardless, I think they were happy that our young minds were occupied. They didn’t have to deal with two problems at the same time: a bunch of kids, and Grandma.
Thomas was very smart. I think he got his brains from Grandpa, but there was a big difference. Grandpa had what mom and dad called hard-earned wisdom. Thomas had book smarts. Thomas always tried to convince everyone that he was as smart as Grandpa, but he wasn’t, at least not yet. We let him think he was, sometimes. But all that’s beside the point. What counts now is what Thomas told us about a portico. I gave toast and bacon to the others who had not eaten breakfast. Thomas kept spitting chunks of chewed bread while he rambled in his excitement. “Grandpa explained what a colonnade was in nature. It’s a row of trees growing in a straight line on top of another dead, fallen tree. If it were a piece of architecture, it would appear to be several columns in a perfect row. What Grandpa never told us is that a portico is also an architectural structure. It’s a special kind of colonnade that screens or surrounds a doorway, presumably a doorway that opens into a building.”
Cousins Sarrah and Brian said at exactly the same time, “What the heck are you talking about?” Those two were as different as night and day, but they were also as inseparable as twins. Inseparable is a great word. Grandma and Grandpa were that way. Even our dads are inseparable brothers. They have their different lives, and definitely they have different opinions, but they really are as thick as family. Family is a huge part of why you and I are even standing here, Debbie. But, let me get back to the story.
Thomas started to explain, again, about a portico, but I had no patience for a repeat. I was sure he would use more big words that we could barely understand, so I interrupted. “Are you telling us there’s a doorway out there in those woods? One that Grandpa’s colonnade is hiding? A doorway to what?”
*****
5. What’s a Springtail
Thomas didn’t have answers to all our questions, but we all knew he would eventually find them. The one answer that we all suddenly did have was that there was some kind of doorway in those woods that led to someplace. It was drivel: an answer that made no more sense to us at the time than Grandpa telling us not to crawl through the portico. It obviously made sense to Grandpa, and if there was sense to be made of it, then we had confidence that Thomas would make it. It would have to happen later, though. It was almost time to go home.
The next day, Thomas and I were on our way to Spokane with mom. It’s such a long time to be in a car. Six hours of Washington countryside! If you’re into looking out windows, the scenery ranges from snow-covered mountains to desert. But for a couple kids, it’s nothing more than a really long, really boring drive. Neither of us was into looking at the scenery during this trip. We both had other thoughts on our minds.
Dad didn’t come home with us. In fact, he called his boss to take more time off work. Dad needed to stay behind to take care of Grandma for awhile. There were so many things for him to do. Most of it was legal stuff of course, like following up on the missing person reports, taking care of bank accounts and bills and the like. We kids needed to go back to school, and mom had to get back to both work and school. It had already been an awkward start to the beginning of the school year. Thomas and I had already missed our first week of school. Truthfully, we figured that going back to school was a good thing since that’s where Thomas usually did his best work. He was probably the world’s biggest teacher’s pet. Somehow he always got his teachers to help find the answers we needed. That first day home, the end of the school day couldn’t have come soon enough for Thomas. He bolted through those school doors like that last bell was the starter’s gun at the race track. He totally ignored one teacher who yelled after him, and he ran all the way home so he could beat the bus. That was a giant waste of energy, though, since I rode the bus. When I finally got home, Thomas was pacing the living room floor, excited, to say the least.
“Hannah! Where have you been?” were the first accusing words out of Thomas’s mouth. He stood at the top of the steps with his hands on his head and his mouth wide open while he waited for my answer. It looked like he was giving a silent yell while pulling his hair, which was way too short for him to grab onto, anyway. Mom had taught me well over the short years of my life. I never took any crap from Thomas. He tried, though, and sometimes he would get in a good one, but I could fight back with the best of them. Now that I think about it, that fighting spirit is probably why I’m still alive.
“Don’t you yell at me!” I snapped. “Was I supposed to be home at some special time just for you? I’m sorry. I don’t remember having a date with you after school. Yuck! A date with my brother! Gross!” I’m sure my almost-teenage hormones were at work that day, but Thomas was too excited to argue. “What’s so important, anyway?” I asked after we both calmed a bit.
“I’ve discovered significant information about springtails!” He shoved a tiny picture of some alien-looking creature in my face. Like I could even see it, stuck it to the tip of my nose like it was. “My science teacher assisted me in the search!” Thomas may have been a little less animated, but for sure, he wasn’t any less excited. Now, at least, I knew why he was agitated.
“Calm down, Thomas. It’ll make more sense to me if you just slow down.” To help Thomas regain some composure, I t
hought it might also be good to stroke his ego a little. “I can’t believe you have an answer already. You’re amazing.” Thomas was thrilled when I complimented him.
Thomas took two deep breaths and started over. This time, he almost made sense. “A springtail is an extremely small insect,” he began. “There are about 6000 different species in the world. In Grandpa’s part of the world, most are approximately one sixteenth of an inch long and live on the forest floor under dead leaves and tree bark. They’re named springtails because they have a tiny prong that protrudes from their lower abdomen and recoils like a spring to aid the insect in jumping. They survive best in damp environments. That’s perfect where Grandpa lives, or anyway, where he used to live. It rains significantly more in western Washington than it does here.”
I was basically grossed out by this talk of bugs, and Thomas still hadn’t really solved the riddle. The biggest questions still didn’t have answers. “That’s all really great, Thomas. But, this is a bug for crying out loud. A darned little bug, at that. How’s a bug going to keep me from ever going home again?” That’s what Grandpa always told us; the springtail armies would keep us from ever going home.
Thomas became almost angry. I think it was just because he had learned so much during the day, and I didn’t seem to appreciate it; in fact, I dared to challenge the depth of his knowledge. The look on his face was almost scary, and his voice quivered through tightened lips. “Hannah,” he said with a definite note of exasperation, “I’m well aware of what Grandpa always said. Let me finish. Springtails live in large groups. There can be 100,000 of them in a square meter of forest floor, and they consume organic materials, like fungus, or mold, or decaying bodies.”