This is a story I wrote that won first place in a club contest. It will be in the 2019 anthology which is currently available for sale on Saturday Writers website. You can support local writers by buying a copy. I hope this story will brighten your day.
Grandpa Jimmy died. He was ninety-five. So his passing was no surprise . . . what he left behind taught us that you never know someone completely.
We gathered at his house after the funeral to celebrate his life and also tried to figure out what to do with this old rundown farmhouse. It was no longer a farm since all except one acre had been sold. He lived there to his last days, and like many older people, never threw anything away.
Young people think of themselves as living eco-friendly lives because they recycle, but ultra-seniors keep everything. I’ve heard many of them say, “ You never know, I might need it later.”
Cleaning out his house would be a horrendous task. Since I lived the closest, the bulk of the work was left with me, and whomever I could convince to help. Some family members were happy to cherry-pick items they wanted, but when it came to getting their hands dirty, they disappeared like Houdini.
After a few weeks when the most valuable items had been scavenged by his dear relatives, I was left to clean up the rest. The most valuable possessions I took were the memories, and there were many. Grandpa was a storyteller. I listened to his endless tales as a kid, never knowing if they contained any truth. I drank in the adventurous yawns (his term not mine) like a dehydrated marathon runner.
I started my deep dive into clearing the junk at the attic level. Fall was the best time to be in an attic without freezing or sweating my ass off. My kids helped however their fascination with the valuable junk slowed the process down. They came more for their own entertainment than the idea of helping.
If I planned to get this place cleaned up in this century, I couldn’t spend time looking at every trinket or scrap of yellowed paper. Although, every once in a while I came upon an item that piqued my interest and dallied a little longer than I should have. It took us a week, well, me a week to clear out the attic. The trunk was the last large item to remove. I had emptied it, so now I needed to hoist it down the ladder. As I maneuvered it toward the opening, I uncovered what looked like a hidden door. I never noticed it since I had never moved the trunk before. There was no handle just a hole to stick your finger in. It could be nothing, but it could be . . . no, I’m sure it was nothing.
I called my son over to look at the hatch in the floor. “Jacob look! What do you think’s in there?”
“I don’t know . . . a treasure chest?” His expectations were always over the top.
“That would be a shock.” I looked at the hole then hesitated. A fourteen-year-old boy never does. He plunged his hand down and stuck his finger in the hole.
“Hiiissssss” It was my best rendition of a hissing snake.
He jumped like he touched a burning ember. A dad joke . . . they never get old.
I laughed and pointed at him. “Gotcha.”
A mechanic’s light with a hook hung from the rafters. I pointed to it. “Grab that light and bring it over.”
I used the hook to stick in the hole and open the door. Something was there, but I needed more light. I handed Jacob the light cord and told him to plug it in the electric socket, but be careful it’s old wiring. This was just a ploy. There’s no way to be careful when plugging something in other than making sure you not standing in a puddle.
When he reached up to plug it in, I enacted my plan. “Bzzzzzzz.”
He jumped almost bumping his head on the rafters.
“Gotcha again.” So funny.
I should stop. Otherwise, he may end up seeing a shrink when he’s older, and have to explain how he was tormented as a kid. “Okay, plug that back in and come over here. Let’s take a look at our discovery.”
He looked at me with justified and heavy suspicion as he plugged the light back in.
I held the light over the hole. Jacob and I peered in and saw two metal ammo boxes, different sizes. I picked up one and without asking, Jacob got the other one. They weren’t the same. The one I rescued was for 50-caliber ammo. The stamped words on the second box read 12 mines w/o fuses. I hoped they contained military memorabilia instead of the original contents.
We opened the 50 cal ammo box first. I was pleased to find no ammo. As I suspected it contained keepsakes from his military life. War and campaign medals, love letters, foreign money and letters from Harry Truman, Charles de Gaulle and Winston Churchill. Each letter thanked him for his courage, leadership, and service during World War II.
Was this something they did for all soldiers or was my grandpa special? I didn't know. I opened a leather pouch that was at the bottom of the box and found seven passports for my grandpa. His photo was on everyone, however, each had a different name.
I think I found the answer to my previous question. Grandpa Jimmy was special. He was . . . a spy? Both Jacob and I were anxious to open the second box.
Jacob turned to me with a puzzled look. “Was he a good guy or a bad guy?”
"From what I can tell he was a good guy, maybe the best of the best." I paused to reflect on his life. "He was in the Army for ten years. I’m not sure where he was assigned after WWII.” I pointed to the other box. “Let’s open this one.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. The second box contained no landmines, but it did have more surprises. The first treasure I pulled out was a German Luger with an inscription. It was hard to read. I grabbed a rag to wipe off the dust and grime. It read “General Rommel.”
“Wow! General Rommel’s Luger.” I reread it, then carefully placed it back in the holster. I looked at Jacob. “He was called ‘the Desert Fox,' one of the most feared and revered German officers.”
Wanting to offer input to the conversation and not knowing anything about World War II. Jacob said. “Hollywood calls George Clooney, ‘the Silver Fox.'"
“Good to know. . . it’s not the same, not even close.”
Beads of sweat formed on my temples. I couldn't believe what we had found. I stared into the box not knowing what I would find next. This was already more than I expected.
Jacob, on the other hand, did not hesitate. He reached in and pulled out a diagram with instructions. He looked them over quickly and threw them my way. It took me a minute to determine it was bomb-making instructions. Oh! My God! Grandpa really was a spy.
Jacob looked in. There was only one item left, and it didn't intrigue him. He pretty much lost interest. Nothing could have been better than the Luger we found. I couldn’t have been more interested, although I was sure nothing more I found could surpass the treasures we’ve already discovered.
I reached in and pulled the last item out, a badge. A badge that was needed to enter a military installation. That in itself was not surprising. The surprising part was it was for Area 51, a highly classified remote military site in Nevada. If that means nothing to you, Roswell might. I explained the mysterious history to Jacob.
“Dope, I love Star Wars and all those alien stories. Can we go there and see it?”
“No, stop talking now, please.”
It dawned on me that Grandpa Jimmy’s early life before I knew him was beyond belief. I was blown away.
I looked back in the hole to make sure I hadn’t missed anything when I saw. . . a tattered business card. I reached down and plucked it off the floor. It read "Hollywood Prop Company." I flipped the card over and on the back was one handwritten word, "Gotcha."
