Grandma Euphemia. ‘Effie,’ Grandpa used to call her. Grandpa had been gone a long time. “It’s hard to be the one left behind,” she’d tell me. And then she’d look off into the distance. And next, “Mostly though, most of the time,” she’d smile and say, “I have been a lucky skunk.” And then she’d encourage me to tell her once again about whatever new venture I was about to embark on.
Good memories. Today I look over and see the attic ladder hanging halfway to the floor. When I was a kid I always wanted to climb that ladder to where Grandma used to keep her oatmeal date cookies. My last chance now. Today’s the day.
I pull the ladder all the way down, climb up, and look over the floor’s edge into the attic. It’s mostly empty.
The wind outside whistles and rattles the old attic window above the rafters. I can smell the rain. A light from the street trickles through the little window.
No cookies there now. I do see an old milk bottle. Grandpa’s pipe. And beside them a dusty notebook with a red cover and a red-ribbon bookmark. I reach for the book, open it to the first page, squint and read,
‘Rule 1: If the vegetable on your plate is green, eat it. If the meat on your plate is green, do not eat it.’
My feet are beginning to fall asleep on the top rung. I leave the milk bottle and Grandpa’s pipe, tuck the notebook under my chin, take it back down the ladder, and drive home.
When I get there, I take the notebook into my silent empty bedroom, breathe, turn on the dim bed lamp, open the red cover, and thumb through Grandma’s notes a page at a time.
One Rule on each page, each numbered and neatly printed in peacock blue-green ink.
For instance, Rule 18, a distant memory, says: ‘Don’t turn around and stare at the people behind you in church. Even though they’re talking when they shouldn’t. Even though you are charming.’
Rule 34: ‘Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Move ahead. Live a little.’
Rule 35 is blank. I flip through each of the following pages, and all of them are empty. No numbers, no Rules, no nothing.
So I decide to write our new list of Rules. And begin where Grandma left off.
Under Rule 35 I print, as neatly as I can, ‘Do not eat peas with a spoon.’
