All for the Pickle

In 1942 my grandmother's phone rang. We had, probably, the most advanced telephone service available in northwest Indiana—we had a dial phone! Bell Telephone—or whatever it was called then—had bought out the local service that took care of the people in the nearby town. That service took over the poles that stretched along the highway in front of our house for fifteen miles, from one town to another.
The poles had been stuck in the ground back in 1907 to carry the wires that propelled a trolley car between most of our populated areas. That streetcar business folded up operations before 1930, but the poles and wire were still a valuable commodity, and they brought electricity and phones to the rural folks who lived along our road. When Bell came along, there was opportunity to introduce the rotary dial phones with the single hand piece that you could use for both talking and listening.
We were on top of the world, back then. We had electric lights, natural gas, and rotary dial. Best of all, only our phone rang when we received a call, not everyone's. Nobody would listen in to our private conversations.
Well, that wasn't entirely true: a good ear could detect the short, tiny buzz on our party line when someone else's phone rang. My grandmother was particularly good at hearing that buzz. She would shoot from one side of the house to the phone and carefully lift the receiver, keeping her hand over the mouthpiece.
Even at two years old, I knew when to keep my mouth shut and to stop playing when I saw this action take place. When the call was over she coordinated her effort to hang up at the same time one of the actual callers did, because it would be obvious if the dial tone didn't come back, meaning there was still someone on the line. Then she would wait a few moments. In short order, she would call one of her friends to relay the news she had just heard while yet listening for the telltale pickup of another receiver. It was not unknown to have all ten phones on our party line listening in at the same time.
Anyway, my grandmother's phone rang, and I listened to what was being said from our end. It was something along the order of "You did WHAT?" and then "But where will you go?" followed by "We can't DO that!" After she hung up, I made noises to ask what was going on (I was only two, you understand), but she didn't elaborate or discuss the call with me (I was only two, you know). It wasn't until my grandfather came home from work and was sitting at our evening meal with the napkin stuck around his neck and his black coffee steaming in front of him that I heard what had occurred.
"My mother sold the house." My grandmother delivered this news right after she asked if he wanted her to pass the potatoes.
My grandfather stopped what he was doing and sat motionless, trying to absorb what had been said.
"Sold the house?" he said, and then added, "What house?"
"Dad's house," she answered.
Ever frugal, my grandfather responded, "For how much?"
"$7,000."
They stared at each other for a while and then lapsed into a lengthy argument that proved to be boring to me. I sat and ate, unaided, in my highchair with the pink bunnies that ran across my tray and never catching each other. One of them, I was sure, was named Peter because that's what my favorite book was about.
That day has stood out in my memory ever since because of the changes in all our lives when Great-grandmother Brown came to live with us. I rode in the car with the great big trailer tagging along behind. We brought home several loads of furniture and boxes of clothes and stored some of it in one of my uncles' bedrooms. A dark brown bed, the mattress higher than I could stand, was where Great-grandma would spend the next few years of her life.
With her came some things that I was most curious about: a Victrola, high laced-up shoes, a dresser with a marble top, some boxes of pictures, and a very interesting box of Christmas decorations. That box stood out from all the others, even the Victrola, for which she would let me stand on a chair and wind it up for her.
I knew all about Christmas, having observed one such occasion of that holiday in my life. I knew all about Santa Claus and even saw him climbing in our window with all kinds of presents in his red suit trimmed in white.
That was our first Christmas with Great-grandma Brown. We had a tree that year, one that my uncle cut down in the back parking lot of the state park. We used her old-fashioned decorations, including the old candleholders, which we did not light that year, and all of the old, faded glass balls, some covered with fine twisted wires that reminded me of my cousin's hair on rainy days. We had all the typical colors—red ones, green, gold, and blue ones, and there was a silver reindeer that pulled a red sleigh and a white star with its own candle that perched highest on the tree and brushed the ceiling. But my most favorite one of all was also my great-grandmother's favorite—the dull and dark green pickle that was hidden deep in the tree for me to find every Christmas.