The Magician's Closet

The hot, humid evenings lately have reminded me of a somewhat magical summer night many years ago. My grandfather had died and, not too long after that, my father and I visited my grandmother for a few days. Dad stayed in the guest room and, for the first time ever, I was to stay in what had been my grandfather's bedroom. Yes, my grandfather and grandmother didn't just sleep in different rooms, but on different floors of the house. As a child, you don't really ask questions.

When it was time for bed, I carried my suitcase to the second floor and opened the creaky door with some trepidation. It wasn't a fear of ghosts that was frightening me, but an overwhelming feeling that I was trespassing. I must have spent hours looking through my grandfather's untouched, crowded bookshelves. Everyone else was asleep by the time I found his memoirs, typed and bound in a coral folder. I began reading. It began with his earliest memories as a child of German immigrants, the young death of his mother, and the harshness of Minnesota winters. It went through his childhood, telling of experiences completely unfamiliar to those I'd known. And it moved on to his young enlistment in World War I. Unbelievable. (I should mention that there seems to be a time-honored tradition on my father's side of advanced paternal age. My great-grandfather was 45 when my grandfather was born; my grandfather was 45 when my father was born; though he was a younger parent to me, my father was 45 when my younger sister was born. When she was in high school and had to write an essay about a veteran, she chose her grandfather, a veteran of World War I, while her classmates' grandfathers had been in Vietnam or Korea.)

There was no air conditioning in the bedroom and it was so hot it felt impossible to sleep. I wandered around my grandfather's bedroom a bit more. I was thirteen when he'd died and my memories of him were jumbled. He'd loved teasing me, usually with a heavy German accent. In fact, it wasn't until I was nearly ten that I discovered he wasn't actually from Germany. I was shocked. He'd give me pieces of strong black licorice as a secret treat and even stronger German cheeses to sample. Sometimes, the two of us would sit together and watch a little television. I remember him becoming enraged if Frank Sinatra was ever on---something about cowardly draft-dodging during World War II. Though he had begun his career as a stage actor, the bulk of my grandfather's life had been dedicated to helping veterans.

As a stared around the room, I saw a door I hadn't noticed before. Carefully, I opened it and fumbled for a light. Nothing on the wall, but I could see a string dangling and pulled it. A dim light filled a closet almost as big as a small room---but it was different from what we now think of as a walk-in closet. There were bookcases in rows, filled with---I had no idea. There were many shapes beneath scarves and cloths. I slowly lifted one and saw a silky, black magician's hat. I think I may have literally gasped. As I investigated more, I found a cape, a wand, something wooden that looked like an egg cup, but had a trick lid, and all kinds of vintage bits that belonged in a magician's trunk. What on earth had I discovered?

I'm not sure if I even slept that night. In the morning, I hurriedly told Dad about the fantastical closet I'd found.

"Oh, right! He used to always put on magic shows for the neighborhood children."

What?!?! I'd had no idea. I sat quietly, thinking about my grandfather. And as I think about it all now, I don't think I'd say that summer night in his empty room was "somewhat magical". It was perfectly magical.