Bagdonas, Joseph B.

English

DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

The Prairie Light ReviewVolume 2 | Number 3 Article 28Spring 6-3-1983My Grandfather's BoxJoseph B. BagdonasCollege of DuPageFollow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plrThis Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion inThe Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.Recommended CitationBagdonas, Joseph B. (1983) "My Grandfather's Box," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 2 : No. 3 , Article 28.Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol2/iss3/28E^airie Light Review, Page 12CHIPPEWA DISCURSION"The map is not the territory, ”under Tom and Chair Profs dictumand truer it could not befor every wiggle and lost comer straightand lakes never on the right side.Tent anachronist inRV heaverirhavenand motors replace feet in the most progressive scheme ofevolutionby loss of brain capacity or devolve —demolocute — either suffices.Forest is untrodden and all wildlife in the shape of NativeAmerican —displaced myths, of landand field, only to drink to the demons of history.Turtle mounds can be spun to face any enemy.Carve a new head andface it capitolwardfor a nice change.Ojibway learned it wasn't the Dakots to scorn and how doesBob Mosomosleep at nightwhile listening to the Viking-Saints latest exhibitionwhile he's listening for Gess lee ze day bwanin search of ancestor's bones.(You see, they appointed Brave Bob to guard the sitefrom evilrseekers and revenge-doers.)Now Mosomo stalks with axe in hand and ear to groundand Old Mortality in his palm.All is a watershed — not just a dividebetween Mississippi and Hudson, but Native and Interlopewith nowhere to portage.— Lee KeBselmanIF I GOifl90tosleep hereIwiUdreamdreamsbulgingwithunwelcomevisitorseveryonebutyouifllayawake hereI layalonecomeandvisit mesomewherewillyouf— Kathy CoiraMY GRANDFATHER’S BOXby Joseph B. BagdonasI imagine there has been a time in everyone’s life whenthey cherished a box of some kind. A certain special box forkeeping secrets, or a box for sourveniers. Little boxes forhair pins, big boxes for marbles or pretty boxes for well readletters. There was such a box in my life. It belonged to myGrandfather.The box was ordinary in shape, almost square. It was madeof dark wood, probably cherry. The wood was deeply en-graved with designs that intrigued and mystified me as achild. As the years passed and my intelligence grew, I wasable to see the design had continued as the carvers imagina-tion had expanded. Grandfather had made the box when ayoung man. It was his first carving and according to him, hislast.It would hardly qualify as an artwork, being crude in struc-ture and primitive in design but none the less was veryappealing to me. The box was heavily coated inside and outwith a lacquer or shellac. Inside it were three smaller boxes,one on top of the other. They came out through the top, one ata time.The large box locked the three little ones inside with aroughly made brass key, which hung on a nail in the kitchen.During cold winter nights on the farm, the crackle of thekitchen fire could be heard above the sound of the windoutside. This created an intimate atmosphere which broughtour family close together and provided a time after supperwhen Grandfather told stories in wonderfully expressiveLithuanian.He would take the old brass key, open the box, and withthe contents of the first small box spread on his lap he wouldbegin a story. His stories were always different, but theywere always connected with, or inspired by, the objects in thebox.The first little box contained an ancient bullet, a beribbon-ned medal, a spoon and a piece of leather thong. Grandfatherdescribed how he acquired these things many times. Everytime I begged for the “really true” story, he would settledown, eyes twinkling, and spin a story, diametrically differ-ent from the previous explanation.I learned a great deal of the folklore and history of thepeople of Lithuania and Russia during these stories. Grand-father told of his days in the Russia Army, when he hadserved with the Cossacks and his boyhood on his fathersfarm. He told of his first visit to a large city so vividly I feltwe had made the trip together.He took each item from the box and held it until it wasincluded in the story. The end would come after the last itemwas used in the tale.As I think back, I know everyone in the family enjoyed hisstories. The kitchen was always quiet save the ticking of theclock and Grandfathers voice drawing word pictures for us inhis melodious Lithuanian dialect.His stories were exciting, sad, dramatic or quite oftenlaced with side-splitting humor. I remember the whole familyrocking with laughter at some of the anecdotes. I know nowthe stories I considered mine alone were enjoyed by every-one.If fortune smiled on us. Grandfather would weave a talewith the contents of the second box. This box contained ablack stone as big as a robins egg, a gold tassel, some coinsand a feather. The feather was that of an eagle, hawk, falcon,or duck, depending on Grandfathers story.The third and last box was wreathed in mystery. Upon rareoccasions Grandfather would let me handle it, shake itperhaps, but open it. never! My curiosity was so great thatwhen alone in the house I would search everywhere for thebox. Search as I might though, I never found it.1Bagdonas: My Grandfather's BoxPublished by DigitalCommons@COD, 1983Prairie Light Review. Page 13One evening, the box was out and Grandfather was aboutto start a story session when some neighbors dropped in.During the moment of welcoming, I relinquished myself totemptation and stole the box away. I hid it in the soft sandysoil of the garden. Back in the kitchen I found it impossibleto spirit away the key while everyone sat visiting.The next morning, before the family awoke, I took the keyfrom its place and went to the garden. I dug confidently forthe box where I had buried it. It wasn’t there. I began to digeverywhere but no matter where I dug, no box. I panickedand nearly dug up the entire yard. I found nothing. In thecourse of my frantic digging I lost the key.My apprehension was beyond belief. I knew Grandfatherwould notifce the key missing. I knew I would have to face themusic when asked about it and I would have to tell the truth,but how I dreaded it.As time passed Grandfather made no mention of thematter. This bewildered me, for as weeks and months wentby, the family teased me to no end about the missing box.Grandfather took no notice of this.One day long after, while working the fields with him, Iconfessed to losing the box and key. He looked at me with anunderstanding smile and told me the box would be mine if Ifound it. Encouraged by his forgiveness, I asked what wasin the box. He only said it would remain a secret until I foundit and opened it myself.His words occupied my mind from time to time but as Igrew older there was school, work, dates and a world war todeal with. The matter of the box lost its importance.During my service in the war. Grandfather died. When Ireturned to the farm I realized the secret of the little boxwould never be known to me.As the years added to my age, I married and moved to asuburb of a large city. My family grew, and we visited thefarm often.On one occasion my son John, five years old, was playingin the front yard. We came out to sit on the porch aftersupper and noticed him digging in the soft sand of the garden.He was banging a toy shovel against something in theground. Out of curiosity I walked over and was surprisedbeyond belief to find Grandfathers box there, with the oldbrass key in the keyhole.I brushed away the dirt and picked it up. Its familiaritythrilled me. All the warm memories of my childhood and ofmy dear Grandfather came flooding back. I remembered hisworn old hands as he brought the box to the kitchen, I feltagain the warmth and contentment of our simple happyevenings.The key worked hard in the lock, and I wondered wildlyfor a moment how the key and the box, lost separately, hadcome to be united.After some effort I opened the lock and began to removethe small inner boxes. First the top one. It still containedthe old bullet, tarnished medal, blackened spoon and ashriveled and mildewed leather thong. My excitementmounted as I opened the second box. Just as I remembered,it contained a black stone, a tassel, some moldy coins andwhat was once a feather.My hands now held the mysterious third box and with adetermination built through the years, I opened it.It was empty. Although I stood alone, I was startled by achuckle. It was Grandfather’s chuckle, I was sure. I felt closeto him again and I knew this little box would always remainone of my most precious possessions.All these years my curiosity had burned with a greatdesire and now it was satisfied. I felt no disappointment. Iwas glad the box was empty for anything I might have foundin it would not have satisfied me.Its emptiness was like a drained glass, the drinker havingalready been satisfied.THANK YOU TIMMYS ANGELThank you Timmy's angelfor watching over himWhenever he is out of sight risking life and limbYes thank you Timmy s angelfor "covering your beat"When he's preoccupied with thoughts while walking downthe streetHe not always remembers that cars go speeding byHe’s busy kicking pebbles or looking at the skyFrom the time he learned to walk and talk, (and especiallylearned to climb)You've always been behind him working over timeThere 've been collisions on the bike, snake bites on a hike,So you've really been put to the testIt's time you took a vacation, you sure could use the restBut don’t forget to come back and again perch on his shoulderI need you for a few more years while we’ve both growingolder!— Shirley MoravecINTERMISSION AT THE BALLETBodies claim and interpret spacewith a potent grace,reveling in the circumstanceof the evening's performance.Fabric waves give way,luminescences betray.Intrudeon harmonious interlude.A slab of light,blatant white,enters uninvited.Elements ignitedseverely exposea consuming reposebefore torsos unwrap,wrinkled lap.Breathing becomes normal,return toformalAttire properly,according to visibility.Your movements haltsilence's assault.An island madeof absent serenade.Bashful immobility,postponed agilityuntil darknessinduces the redressof a naked stageby s tudied personage.Each to our placean interruption to efface.Kimberly J. Kyp2The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 2, o. 3 [1983], Art. 28https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol2/iss3/28

My Grandfather\u27s Box

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My Grandfather\u27s Box

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