by Denise Heebink
An ignored, beat-up box sat in a corner for years. One of many my parents brought from their home in rural Wisconsin when they drove out to visit me in New York. The boxes might contain family artifacts—letters, doilies, a cutting board that “belonged to your grandmother,” or old photographs. Things that would not let me forget where I came from, or perhaps as likely, things my mother could not bear to throw out.
I opened the box and found a children’s book, more of a pamphlet of 10 pages. The colorful paper cover featured a young boy holding an axe and his mother a broom, both staring up at a gigantic tree with pods hanging from its branches. The title was Jack and the Beanstalk, copyright MCMXXXIV (1934) by The Platt & Muck Co. My grandmother Min had several similar story books, but this one had landed in my hands. They were always kept in the East Lake dresser near the stove and sofa, which was covered with scratchy red wool upholstery.
Holding the book, I again could feel the scratch of wool on my bare legs and smell the scents of food, farm, and cut green grass. I remember her hands were thin and fingers very long. What amazed and startled me were the thick blue veins that snaked across her liver-spotted hands. I liked to flatten the bulging vessels with my finger and watch them pop back up when released. Simultaneously, they fascinated and creeped me out.
Calm and comfort came over me when Grandma Min began reading this book. “Once upon a time, there lived a poor widow who had only one child named Jack. She spoiled him by giving him everything he asked for, so he grew up lazy and disobedient.” Her diction was careful and precise. She had gone to college and been a schoolteacher in a one-room school. Later she married my grandfather, a dairy farmer.
Now and again while reading, the phone would ring. I loved that. Our phone at home was a stylish, beige wall unit with a very long cord. Min’s was a wooden box installation with a separate black, funnel-shaped piece that you placed over your ear to hear and a round receiver to speak into directly. The bell on the box announced a call with a musical ring, and the operator, Nellie, would connect you with someone who was likely local. No one made expensive long-distance phone calls then, except for emergencies and deaths. It was a party line, and anyone could listen in. Naturally, Nellie knew everything.
Many decades of my life have passed since reading Jack and the Beanstalk with Grandma Min. Holding this book now and looking at my own hands, I am startled to find that they look just like hers.
Denise is a semi-retired psychiatrist in New York City who seeks a voice to describe a life of abundance and returns.