My grandmother is a strange lady. She doesn't live in the city like normal people. She lives far out in the woods, all alone, in an old, wooden cabin. Dad says she's a witch. Mom says that's nonsense. My older brother says he doesn't care. I'm just not sure. I need to do some more sleuthing, a word I picked up from the TV, before I pull the mask off the bad guy.
I mean grandmother does live in a small place. It has no lights. Just a big fireplace and an old wood stove. The cabin sits on four large poles leaving a dark empty place beneath the floors. It's spooky down there when it's dark so I refuse to leave at night. And there are spider webs in every corner, even though, the rest of it is kept really clean.
I don't like to go there. There's nothing to do. There isn't even a television, not even an old one. No electricity of any sort so all activity stops when the sun goes down and I have only my watch to tell me what it is. Do you know when the sun goes down? Just after eight. I'm allow to stay up till ten. I can't go to bed that early.
But there is one nice thing. Back home I take at least thirty minutes to go to sleep, and sometimes have to be chased back into bed by my parents, or my stoolie, that a word I heard in an old movie I was watching with my dad, of an older brother, he's hoping to get favor for his own bad deeds. But in grandma's house, with the darkness and the quiet, I fall like a brick in no time.
I even... Wait, where was I? I can't remember. Oh that's right I was talking about the bowl. I came across it one day while I was doing some snooping. I mean, investigating. It was sitting in the kitchen, on the tallest shelf. Not even dad could reach it. So I asked grandma about the bowl. She's sitting in her rocking chair by the fire.
"You wan' be knowin' bout the Devil's Mixing Bowl, eh?" Grandma has a funny way of talking and she stops her rocking. "It all started with an argument."
The fire erupts and I jump. Maybe she is a witch.
"Two men, one baker the other, carpenter," she carries on as the floor creaks and my back shivers. "Each wantin' the same buildin' to expand. Both with equal right. So they start fightin'."
I swear I can hear people arguing far away.
"The mayor steps in," the tale continues as she laces her fingers. "Says only one to have it, is one who needs it. So a contest is had. First one to produce most work in single day, wins."
My leg goes numb, I'm sitting on it wrong. So I move just enough to make it stop.
"Each one shuts themselves up in their shop and goes to work the next day," Grandma proceeds with the story and leans forward. "Whole town watches as the carpenter sets right to work and puts together piece after piece."
I shift in my seat.
"Soon he fills his shop and has to use the street," she rattles on and taps her foot. "Then he fills that. All day and into night, still no sign of the baker."
I scoot forward.
Grandma's chair creaks as she sits forward, both feet flat on the floor. "Everyone is standing waiting. The carpenter is sweating, but smiling, he knows he's won," she pushes forward as her voice quiets some. "When, Boom!" She slams her hands on the arms of the chair and I nearly leap out of my skin. "The whole building explodes from the inside and out into the street comes all manner of baked goods. Cakes and breads and muffins and rolls and biscuits, all kinds of things." She shifts in her seat and settles back down to her rocking. "There's the baker in the middle of it all sweating profusely and mixing without stop. He can't stop. He just keeps mixing and pouring, mixing and pouring. So the people call the priest and he exorcises the bowl and the baker puts it down and the life leaves his body. Everyone knows the bowl is evil and they give it to the priest who keeps it safe."
Grandma stops for a long while. I wonder why, then I hear her snore.
I've grown since that time and now I don't mind visiting grandma. I actually enjoy it. It's a nice break from the hustle and bustle of my life, like a mini vacation. Problem is she now has dementia, but I try not to let that get in the way. I just remember to take it slow with her and spell things out for her benefit.
One day I see the bowl. It's sitting on the floor, broken into several pieces. "Oh dear, grandma," I say. "The Devil's Mixing Bowl, it's shattered."
She looks out from her wheel chair. "Bowl," she says which is apparently the only word she's able to grasp, as she continues to say it over and over again.
I wheel her out for a walk in the woods, all the while she keeps repeating the word, bowl.
"Yes grandma," I respond and open the door. "Bowl."
Exercise #587: Brainstorm
Pick an ordinary object and tell us an extraordinary tale:
* Magic marker
* Mixing bowl
* Light switch
* Television guide
* Walking cane
* Drinking glass
* Clothes hanger
* Kindergarten scissors
* Linen napkin
* Broken hubcap