Stilwell

To say that the plains of Kingston were hot was a gross understatement. When I was young, early on Saturday mornings I’d sit in front of the TV, melting into the brown canvas couch in our little apartment on McDonald Drive, the colorful figures gliding across the rounded screen, distracting me as I roasted. But I had my reasons for waking to brave the heat and, punctual as ever, this reason would arrive right on time: a gently hummed tune floating through the air, accompanied by light but sure footsteps making their way through the trimmed grass just outside the door. It was this same tune she used to announce her arrival every morning she came. I would crack the louvers just enough for bands of yellow sunlight to filter in through the gaps, and peering out into the backyard, I’d see my grandmother approaching with the warmest grin I’ve ever known. Hurriedly, I would grab my bag and rouse my parents, who would barely be out of bed by the time my sister and I had dashed through the front door and into her car.

As we made our way through the sweltering streets, I’d look out at the window at the city washed in yellow and baking under the sun. I’d glance down long empty stretches of asphalt, watching the air shimmer from the heat, creating slick puddles and causing me to wonder if I’d somehow missed a downpour of rain. My skin would stick to the black leather seats and with each jolt of the car peel from them like tape. But as we continued on our way, I’d begin to realize that we were nearing our journey’s end. I’d recognize the sprawling golf course, the bustling plaza, and the colorful market surrounding the foot of the emerald hills for which we were destined. Then, we’d round a corner and watch the boisterous city gradually disappear, obscured behind a mound of stone and greenery. This would mark the beginning of our ascension into the green haven I know as my grandparents’ domain.

Our climb up the hills was always a welcome voyage. As we rose higher and higher, a canopy of vibrant trees would cast long dark shadows on the road ahead, sparing us from the stifling heat. The path upwards would begin to wind, meandering through the stony hills and around ancient trees, towering sentinels reigning over the peaks and valleys. I could almost see the monkeys bounding along their thick branches, monkeys that of course, were never there. But my visions of the simian critters inhabiting the trees only brought forth more imagined beasts roaming the forests all around me. Sometimes my grandmother would glance back at me and smile as I stared out the window, engrossed in my imagination. I believe she saw the same creatures I did and, truthfully, never stopped seeing them. I would only be plucked from my musings when the car rolled to a halt at the front gate. We were here.

Earlier I said that the climb would signal the end of our journey. This was, in fact, not the truest description as arriving at Stilwell Road was only the beginning of an even greater adventure. Lining the pebbled driveway were flowers of every color and hue. Lush shrubs would brush gently against the car as we made our way through, tapping delicately along the metal body of the vehicle like drops of rain.

“We’re home,” says Grammy as we park under the garage.

Opening the door, I would brace for a lively, shaggy greeting in the form of Merlin and Zulu, the guardians of our sanctuary. The two German shepherds would trot excitedly over, happy to see us after the “eternity” of a week apart, and accompany us inside. The house was filled to the brim with the oddest of oddities and the most curious of curiosities. Both grandparents had a deep admiration for art and had something interesting in every corner of the house. They had everything from paintings to sculptures, statues to tapestries, busts to papier- mâchés, even intricately carved gourds from faraway countries. I would put down my bag beside a trio of tall calfskin drums and head straight to the patio and find my grandpa seated on the couch studying a large book. This patio, a platform of massive red stone tiles, looked out across the entire valley. A comforting ring of hills surrounded the land, sequestering us from all worries and troubles for a time. Right below me stood our verdant forest and between us ran a freshly manicured lawn like a river separating its two banks. As soon as Grandpa saw us, the book would be forgotten and his face would brighten, ready to entertain for the rest of the weekend. And so, settled in, the real adventure could begin.

The heat of the city was a distant memory. The harsh noise, the fast pace, and the commotion were worlds away and were replaced by birdsongs, ease, and serenity. The rest of the weekend would go something like this: Just after dawn, I would wake my grandparents up starving. Eventually they learned to set out a snack for me from the night before, allowing them another precious few hours of sleep. Later, they would rise and have their coffee, a practice I learned to emulate with my hot chocolate. This time was also used for a short meditation guided by my grandmother on the red patio before anything else could be done for the day. She would prompt us to take deep breaths and think of all the things taking place within our realm. That early in the morning, a dense mist would crown the treetops, wrapping the land in a silver shroud. As I had been taught, I’d think about the valley waking up in procession. First I’d think of the leaves that would unfurl to soak up the sun’s rays. Then, of the lizards that would soon emerge from tiny burrows to warm their cold bodies on smooth stones, their vibrant colors seemingly returning with the heat. Next, I’d consider the birds that would fill the air with pleasant chirps and flit among the trees on our farm, where cultivated crops like pumpkins, mangoes and bananas sat juxtaposed with a wild tangle of trees growing unhindered in the sanctuary. And then, just as I’d feel as if I had contemplated every life form in the valley, I would open my eyes to find everything awakening just the way I’d imagined it.

The rest of the day usually ended up being split between both grandparents. The daylight hours were for Grammy, who liked to take us on adventures around the farm, teaching us about the different plants (nibbling on the edible ones) and animals that lived with her. She always seemed to have a personal story about every one of them, no matter how inconsequential they seemed, from the drama brewing between the owl and his noisy parakeet neighbors, to the tale of whatever tree we happened to be standing under. This time also involved training the dogs, picking fruit, and dreaming up strange contraptions to make work around the farm easier or just more fun. The evenings belonged to Grandpa and consisted of watching old movies like James Bond (Sean Connery’s take, of course) or any western ever made. No matter the movie, he could always recite a part of it straight from memory, the words becoming ingrained in my mind with each repetition. After the movie, he’d have us listen to music of all kinds like Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 or just an exorbitant amount of jazz.

Our nights were capped with two chapters from The Hardy Boys, an old series of detective novels about two brothers who solve mysteries. This tradition began with my great- grandfather, who read them to Grandpa, who read them to my dad, and now read them for my sister and me. My sister endured longer than I ever did, making it to the end of the second chapter, while I, mind already drifting, could never pass the first. The next day we would return home, back to the sweltering heat, laden with a bounty from Grammy’s farm and a CD from Grandpa’s collection. I dreaded the return to the week’s monotony, but those thoughts were far from my mind on such evenings as, lying in bed high up on the cool peak of Stony Hill, I gladly relinquished my attention to the exploits of Frank and Joe Hardy.