“All this happened, more or less.”
“Are you sure, Grandpa?” I yawned. No reply. I looked up at him with drowsy eyes and a weary expression on my face, only to observe him quietly drifting off into a state of sleepiness himself. I saw his head lean towards the ground before bouncing back up to its original position for minutes before it became apparent that he had completely dozed off.
“Grandpa,” I whispered, “You’re tired.” He began to steadily raise his head another time, this time providing a light chuckle along with it.
“Yes, Christopher,” he replied, “I suppose I am.” He had an aged, but soft, look to his face, with faded-blue eyes that sulked over wrinkled skin, and thin, pursed lips that delicately exhaled in short, repetitive breaths. “However,” he continued, “It appears as though I’m not the only one.” He picked me up and placed me on top of his shoulders, leaving our makeshift sitting area, of folding chairs near the living room window, for the guest room. Before I knew it, I was tightly mummified, from the neck down, into three layers of blankets. It was not the most comfortable of setups, but warm enough to withstand the coolness brought into the room by a cold Wisconsin night. My grandfather had already proceeded to carry out the remaining of our nightly rituals; in which the room had been tidied, prayer had been given, the light switch had been turned off, and the door was slowly creaking shut. All was quiet and calm, and then I remembered the question I posed earlier, and became ruffled at the thought of it being unanswered.
“Grandpa!” I shouted at the tops of my lungs. No reply. Sighing, I unraveled myself from the blankets, made my way to the door, stepped out into the hallway, and traveled towards the end of the hall to my grandfather’s bedroom. While doing so, I found personal joy in examining the finer details of the corridor around me. Upon the orange and yellow pinstriped walls were a scattering of photographs, all of which were contained in frames of various shapes and sizes. In such images were unrecognizable people and places, and I made it a mental note of mine to ask my grandfather, one day, of each face and site to learn their story.
As I got closer to my grandfather’s room, the walls became less cluttered with images and more littered with various artifacts. I recognized most of the items, for my grandfather regularly used them as focus points for the stories he told me every night. There was the 20 pound largemouth bass, hooked on top of an oval-shaped plaque, that my grandfather proclaimed to have been the local river ‘monster’ he and his brother had hunted down when he was of a younger age. Then there was the half-bitten handle of an ax that my grandfather had explained to be the remains of an encounter with a black bear. In addition, there was the piece he had used tonight as the centerpiece for one of his stories. It was considerably larger than the rest of the objects hanging on the wall, and was almost shaped like half a circle. It was composed of an assortment of sheets, carpets, blankets, and other covers; all of which vividly expressed a multitude of colors and patterns.
“What is it?” I had asked earlier.
“A quilt.” replied my grandfather. He laid it out over the living room floor. “You see,” he continued, “As a young boy, I was always adventurous. I don’t know why, maybe it was the adrenaline I received from being in an adventure or the curiosity that caused me to embark on them, but I was. A lot of my time was spent roaming these very backwoods, and I did so whenever I found an opportunity to. This meant after school, after church, after work, whenever. In fact, I would go as far to say that I explored these woods so much that they basically became my home away from home.” He took a moment to stare out the living window towards an outline of shaded figures overlooking a small area of flat land. “So believe me Christopher,” he said, now refocusing his attention towards me, “When I tell you how surprised I was to realize I didn’t know these woods as good as I believed.”
“What do you mean Grandpa?” I asked.
“Well,” he answered, “On one particular day, when I had decided it to be a fine idea to spend some time in the woods, the local forecast had predicted it to rain. Now, on this day, I didn’t see a single cloud in the sky, and stubbornly decided, against my family’s wishes I might add, to go out into the wilderness anyway. Of course, my trip started out as any other, with me traversing through the woods on the same path I always took; and me attentively observing the details within the trees, shrubs, flowers, and any other article of nature I could lay my eyes upon. However, as the day progressed, clouds did begin to fill the sky and rain did eventually fall. Unfortunately for me, the path I was traveling on was composed of dirt, and as I attempted to return home, it turned into mud; which made it difficult to travel through. Eventually, nightfall came, and I was seemingly trapped within the woods. Not being able to see where I was going, I feasibly became lost and, unknowingly at the time, wondered off my path. The only reason why I proclaim I was off the known path was because I began blindly roaming a more tougher, rigid terrain. The next thing I know, I’m aimlessly walking upon air before becoming unconscious.” My grandfather pointed towards the quilt on the floor. “When I awoke, I was laying within a tent made of this. I tried to stand up and leave, but my right leg was in immense pain and I simply couldn’t. I then tried to call out for help, but to no reply. I didn’t remember being in any tent, and figured someone had to have placed me in one; so I continued to call out into the darkness until a light shined through the quilt. I expected a camper or EMT or even somebody from my family who had found me knocked out to be entering; but instead came face to face with a little old man who had no apparent name, but repeatedly kept referring to himself as the ‘Doctor’. He brought with him an array of herbs and rubbed them over my hurt leg. He then took out a small bowl of raspberries and crushed them into a liquified state, handing them to me to drink. This activity would continue for what seemed like forever, before I was able to stand and somewhat walk properly. When I was able to do so, the ‘Doctor’ took me out of the tent, covered me with the quilt, and led me to a ridge in the woods. When I took off the quilt, the ‘Doctor’ was gone. I climbed back up the ridge and eventually found my way back to the path. From there, I eventually returned home. I was gone for about three months.”
“Wow.” I uttered.
“Yeah,” my grandfather responded. “While I couldn’t see anything clearly through the quilt, I did hear other voices; a group of ‘Doctors’ I supposed. However, when I returned the ridge and searched for the person who healed me, and the group he belonged to, I couldn’t find anybody.”
“Did this really happen Grandpa?” I questioned.
“All this happened, more or less.”
“Are you sure, Grandpa?” I yawned. No reply.
I finally arrived to my grandfather’s room to discover him sleeping peacefully in his bed. I tiptoed over to his body and whispered within his ear, “Grandpa?” No reply. I whispered within his ear again; however, this time a little louder. His body shook for a brief moment before his eyes stared into mine.
“Yes Christopher?” he asked quietly.
“Are you sure, Grandpa?”
“Sure of what, Christopher?”
“Of the story, Grandpa.”
“What story, Christopher?”
“The one you told me earlier. The one with the quilt.”
“Oh,” he replied, slowly rising out bed. “Yes, Christopher, I’m sure.” My grandfather let out a yawn before picking my back up on his shoulders. “Now,” he stated, “Let’s get you back to bed.”
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