GRANT'S PET SHOP
by
Ron S. Nolan, Ph.D.
© 2008
Chapter 1
Newcomers to the park, at least those who came
specifically for a
taste of island history, often as not received directions to the
order of, "It's near the center of the grounds...just look for
the birds. You'll find it." And looking up they would seem to
notice for the first time the gaggles of gulls circling and
screaming—a kind of parody of nearby Duval street along which
shuttled disoriented tourists in a never ending, back and forth,
coast to coast rush. Homing in towards the center of attraction, the
visitors would find a full-sized, steam-powered locomotive, a relic
of Averill Harriman's inter-island railroad, standing rock-solid on a
short section of track baking waves of searing heat from its shiny
black plate. Sea gulls perpetually slid and crisscrossed overhead,
sometimes landing briefly before lifting off towards the crystalline
sand of Baker Beach and the rich fishing grounds of the Gulf of
Mexico. The train served as a social commons for the birds; a
strutting ground where newly formed pairs enacted their
pre-programmed rituals of courtship—leaving beneath their
perches frozen drips, like vanilla frosting melting in the hot sun.
Small well-kept clapboard houses crafted in the
classic style of
historic Key West bordered Mac Arthur Park. Like most of the homes
in the neighborhood, the Grant residence was washed chalk-white. The
front porch was screened as protection against Florida's ravenous
mosquitoes and remained cool even in the heat of the afternoon.
Overhead, suspended by brass links, a carved wooden sign in bright
paint announced "GRANT’S PET SHOP." A green and red
enameled parrot grasped the top of the "O" in the word
"SHOP," hanging tight with yellow talons. A busy jungle of
tropical banana, pink and red bougainvillea, and blazing birds of
paradise engulfed the small yard—separated from the sidewalk by
a cedar hedge. Cement birdbaths and low benches were stashed
haphazardly in the lush foliage. Looking more like a home than a
business, a passerby would have never guessed the extent of the
menagerie within—especially in the middle of a very quiet
neighborhood in Key West, Florida during the summer of 1960.
Past the porch packed with faded wicker furniture and
choked
waist-high with neat stacks of yellowed newspapers, a wooden door
with a cracked white porcelain knob led into the shop proper. Assorted
bamboo birdcages, small and large, jammed side-by-side,
harbored chirping flitting tropical birds in effulgent plumage. A
chorus of demanding minas, punctuated by piercing monkey screams,
blended with whirling hamster wheels and the rhythmic throbbing of
electric aquarium pumps. The whistles, chirps, and whisper of fine
bubbles bursting free from row upon row of fish tanks laid a matte
finish synthesis upon which grew warm earthy smells reminiscent of a
moist rain forest spiced with a tinge of fragrant pipe tobacco.
Erma Grant sat on her favorite wooden stool, hidden
behind a forest
of suspended aquarium nets, dog brushes and red and yellow displays
of Hartz Mountain parakeet seed. As usual, she was absorbed by the
shop's ambience, daydreaming amidst the collage of sounds, motions
and smells and listening to the dialog of the animals as they freely
expressed themselves in languages that she seemed to fully
comprehend. Grandma Grant favored loose-fitting flowered blouses and
long skirts which gave plenty of breathing room to her ample girth,
but she never appeared in the shop without her forest green
full-length apron—
pockets bulging with thermometers, sunflower seeds,
yellow wooden
pencils and cellophane-wrapped packets of Kleenex. She wore her
thick silver hair braided and wrapped tightly in a bun just barely
restrained by sturdy hair pins. She was the kind of person that
people liked immediately upon meeting for the first time.
Grandma Grant stooped over gingerly and looked down
into the
cardboard box lying on the floor behind the counter. Seeing just an
empty bowl of water and a few wilted lettuce leaves, she frowned then
called in a deep rich voice toward the back of the shop, "Grandpa,
I just knew it. I knew something was wrong around here. He's got
out again, that little rascal. Shut the back screen and help me find
him, will you dear?"
Her husband was five years older than she. Tall and
thin, his
bristly jaw was forever clenched to the stem of a briar pipe filled
with tobacco. And like most pipe smokers, he enjoyed the ceremony of
filling, lighting, tamping and scraping almost as much as the taste
of the Wedgeworth tobacco smoke. Grandpa Grant could either be
jovial or cantankerous and sometimes a little bit of both at the same
time. He was set in his ways and accustomed to doing things
according to his own well-established routine. So like many people
do for some reason or other, he pretended not to hear Grandma on the
first call—even though his hearing was as sharp as ever.
Grandma smiled, knowing his tricks, she repeated her
request, but a
notch louder this time.
From the rear of the shop, over the effervescence of
aquarium air
stones, she heard his deep baritone answer, "Old Gopher Brains
is back here, dear."
Grandpa, wearing a blue work shirt and faded jeans,
shuffled up the
aisle hefting in both hands a struggling ten-pound desert terrapin
whose stubby legs vainly breast-stroked in empty space.
As he lowered the AWOL tortoise back into the box, he
continued,
"He's just getting senile like the rest of us. Didn't get back
'fore you noticed he was gone this time did he?"
Grandpa gave the turtle a gentle rap on the top of its
shell. "Here
you go old Gopher Fart, you are a tricky fella, aren't ya? ‘Bout
time for Sandra to be comin' home, ain't it? Bet she stopped off at
the park. She sure loves that train, doesn't she Grandma?"
"Grandpa, I love that child. I just wish her parents
could have
lived to see how she is turning out. She's a real charmer, and sharp
too! Some young man is going to thank his lucky stars when she says
yes."
"You're right, but I don't think that's gonna..."
Grandma's eyes suddenly rolled up into the back of her
head and she
slumped forward. Her broad elbows landed with a thud on the wooden
counter. She cradled her head in her palms and slowly rocked back
and forth.
Cut off in mid-sentence, Grandpa snapped his jaw shut
and puffed a
cloud of blue-gray smoke from the stem of his pipe. It was another
one of her "spells" and he had learned to keep still at
moments like this. Not until several years into their marriage had
she cautiously revealed the secret—that she often heard voices
from another place and time. By now Grandpa was certain that she
often did.
Roland...Grandpa...I just had the most wonderful
vision about Sandra.
I've known for years that she has my psychic gift. She is already
starting to develop a power like mine in some ways, but different in
others. I saw her grown into a beautiful young woman and swimming in
the sea with dolphins. There was a very handsome man falling in love
with her...and so were the dolphins."
"But Grandma, Sandra told me that she was going to
wait for me
until she grows up," laughed Grandpa. But since she's only in
junior high, I don't think we have to worry about marrying her off
quite yet. She still insists she wants to go to the University of
Miami and become a psychologist. She sure has your way with the
critters around here, I'll vouch for that."
Grandpa exclaimed "Hey! I just heard the front door
slam. I
bet that's her. Let's get the milk and the cookies going. This
jabbering is making me mighty hungry for those home-made chocolate
chips you just baked."
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