The Auction

The sale grounds at the home of my paternal grandparents, Claude and Olive Yoder, were crowded.  Outside, the flurry of activity seemed another world to me: they were selling my grandmother’s things—and my grandfather’s too. Since the years of Grandma Ollie’s death, the lonely house, once filled with bustling activity, was no longer to be his home.  

Tired of the noisy din, I withdrew into the house.  The once-orderly home sounded empty and hollow as I took a private moment to walk through the gutted rooms. Alone, I entered the narrow pantry.   A limp, white muslin curtain hung forlornly over a simple rod that drooped at an angle over the narrow open window that almost filled the narrow wall straight ahead.  A gentle breeze stirred the curtain to life as I entered the space. Empty. Like the hole in my heart.  I caressed the gray linoleum-covered shelves that lined the wall on the right—shelves that once held Grandma’s freshly-baked cookies, cakes, pies, pots, pans, and supplies.

I sighed and retreated to the kitchen.  My eye moved to the old Frigidaire refrigerator with rounded top corners, and to the large white gas stove.   The porcelain-covered cast iron sink that once held mountains of dirty dishes and pans of sudsy hot water at many Thanksgivings and Christmases, seemed forlorn without the “cat and kittens” and Aloe vera plants and geranium cuttings on the windowsill.  It was a nice kitchen, really—good countertop space, even if it was covered with linoleum.  I pulled open the deep drawer to the left of the sink where she’d once kept her homemade bread, jelly, and a covered glass dish of “Grandpa butter,” a rich, yellow soft churned butter purchased from local Old-Order Amish farmers.  (The Old-Order Amish had horses and buggies, but Claude and Ollie had a shiny black car, and were members of Mountain View Amish Mennonite Church.)

I took a few steps to the wide archway between the kitchen and dining room, and could once again see the blanket nailed across the opening as we 16 cousins put on a Christmas program (directed by me, I might add).  Those who didn’t have a part in the actual nativity scene would recite Scripture verses or poems.  I got lost in thought as I remembered Christmases in their home—the long, dark dining room table, as every child’s parents sat on a bench behind the table and beyond, Claude and Ollie sitting at the end near his roll-top desk. Through tears, I again saw Grandma’s eyes that would squeeze shut from the broad smile on her face as she beamed with pleasure at her grandchildren’s performance.  (For Amish grandparents, surely they had a more open mindset than what I imagined other Amish folks did, to encourage such play-acting.  And I loved them for it.)  I remember Grandma’s table, laden with food at mealtime, and then with bowls filled with Rice Krispie squares, popcorn balls, nuts, and penuche peanut candy squares, for eating after the gift-giving.

The door above the bottom stair step that led upstairs from the dining room was closed.  I knew there were two spacious bedrooms upstairs with Jack and Jill bath, and storage under the eaves.  Without going upstairs, I bent down and opened the hinged bottom stair tread one last time. Nostalgia swept over me as I remembered the children’s toys she’d always kept for us there.  I wiped tears on my blouse sleeve and walked into the living room, now naked and bare.  No huge, lush trailing ferns sitting on tall pedestals in two corners of the room.  No companionable rocking chairs, couch, or extra dining room chairs lined up under the double windows. No bureau chest of drawers whose top right-hand drawer secreted a yellow plastic hen that laid little round eggs when put on a surface and pressed.  Through the double living room windows, I looked out into the overgrown area where Grandma once kept a flourishing garden, and beyond that to the farm’s orchard where I’d gathered apples as a child.  An ache tugged at my heart as I turned away.  

With slow and quiet steps, as though in respectful mourning for the house, I entered Grandpa and Grandma’s bedroom.  An empty spot that once held their dresser greeted me.  I thought of the top left-hand drawer that had held Grandma Ollie’s white Mennonite head coverings with strings sewn to the bottom corners.  (I used to try one on from time to time, and I could still remember the sense of Grandma’s pleasure when I did so.)  In that drawer was also a thing of great fascination for me—a special teeny purse made of mother-of-pearl with a red lining.  It had a long chain, and inside the purse locket was a tiny note in Grandma’s handwriting: “First gift from my parents 1903.”  On the decorative outside were the words, “Souvenir, Norfolk, VA.”

Two clothes closets with doors still sporting glass knobs, separated by a built-in shelving unit with a hinged door, and hinged hamper chute below it, met my gaze as it swept the room.  The hall bathroom had built-in shelving with a hinged door and laundry chute as well.  I opened the laundry chute one last time and looked down the hole to the basement floor below, now filled with items for the sale.  I choked back the tears, and wound my way back through the kitchen, into the dining room, to the front door.  The green-patterned linoleum beneath my feet seemed cracked and worn, kind of like my feelings. 

I headed outside to the wide front porch that cried out for my grandma’s touch.  No friendly red geraniums greeted me.  The peeled paint and exposed wood seemed to reflect the peeling layers of my emotions and raw sense of loss.  The high concrete steps were crumbling away, and Grandma’s flower beds were no more.  I’d always loved how the porch steps came to a landing that sported a set of steps on either side of it, so one could turn right or left to go to the yard.  

Slowly, I made my way down those concrete steps one last time and turned right toward the garage and basement door and tables that held boxes of sale items.  I spied Grandma’s Bibles distributed throughout several boxes, and I remembered she’d been a writer.  I leafed through her Bibles, and saw they contained notes and papers which I intensely ached to have, but was afraid to take because they were not mine to take.  I’d been told she had a book of poetry somewhere too, but I never got to see it.  

Grandpa Claude, in his wide-brimmed straw hat and white shirt, with suspenders fastened to dark-colored Amish pants, sat quietly on a chair with his wooden cane under the large canopy tent.  Silently, he put a hand on his knee and watched his and Ollie’s things pawned off to the highest bidder.  My heart felt sad that he’d been so lonely without my grandma by his side.  

I left the garage and made my way to my husband and three young children in the crowd.

A bevy of antique dealers circled like sharks around my grandmother’s things.  Then the auctioneer held up a familiar object: that special little heart-shaped mother-of-pearl purse locket!  And I wanted it.  My heart thumped as I began to bid.  Money was tight for our young family, and my heart beat faster as the auctioneer’s voice rose with excited tempo to the duel between me and another bidder—ten dollars, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty—I looked up at Dave.  The auctioneer asked, “Who’ll make it thirty-five?”  Dave nodded and allowed me to bid higher, because he knew how much I wanted something of my grandmother’s.  I had no room for much of anything of Grandma’s in my house, but this little purse locket would fit just fine.  As the auctioneer asked, “Do I hear forty?” my hand automatically shot up.  Strangely, the antique dealer had quit bidding against me.  I felt numb as the bidding stopped with me. I got it for forty dollars!  I’d won!

After awhile, my cousin Pauline sidled up to me and said she was so glad I kept on bidding and got it.  Later, I was told that someone had told the antique dealer I was Olive’s granddaughter, and that’s why he’d quit bidding.  I was grateful for whoever had spoken up for me.

As the auction ended, and we drove away, I was left with the unmistakable feeling that the auction had trespassed on my property—a tender place in my heart.  They’d had no right to be at my grandma’s house, selling and buying her and grandpa’s things.  But they had been, and there was nothing I could do about it.  Farewell, sweet childhood delight. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy