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Quite a title – sounds like a deep comparison between our ancestral backgrounds and the things buried deep in our lives…

But it is not.

Just a remembering, that got jump started from a reminiscence of a friend one day. She mentioned with fondness and some pain that in her childhood, her grandfather had a root cellar that she was strictly forbidden to go into. He used warnings and scary ideas to keep her out, for whatever his reason, and she told me she wondered for years why she could not go there.

Her memories jogged mine – my sweet grandmother in a house up on a hill in North Carolina, had a root cellar, too. I was not aware of it until one day I visited her and she sent me, a young thing of about 9 or 10 to go into that place and get her two canned jars of her white cherries. Just the mention of that treat got my mouth watering. Of course, so where was this cellar? Around the back door, up a slip of an incline, then open creaky old wooden door, on the back of the antique house, and go down those uneven little concrete steps…into that very dark little room, with rickety shelves, and ooh ooh, a huge cobweb in the corner…grab those jars and run back up into the house. Whew!

Two grandparents, two very different experiences. Hers left her a sad feeling, and mine had confidence in me…and even expected me to conquer that cobweb fear and go back down there again and again. Thank you, grandma.

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