The Door to an Age Gone By

Looking at my papers I’d completely forgotten that I’d received a letter from Opie Taylor awhile back in response to an inquiry of mine about his memories of childhood for a magazine article that I was writing. Tucked in amongst the letters stashed away in my roll-top desk was his letter, and of all the small town adventures that he’d had, the discovery he made on one singular day of his youth has been etched in his heart. I’ve attempted to set down his story based on the three pages of legal-pad sized pages that he sent me, written in longhand with blue ink, and apparently in one sitting.

It was on a hot sweltering Friday afternoon in July of 1962. Opie and Johnny Paul sought refuge from the blazing sunlight in the shadowy haven of the Taylor front porch. They had been out earlier on their bikes down by the railroad tracks racing the slow train. The Twelve 0 Five Special took on it’s load of water as usual, and on this hot day seemed to whistle it’s approval as she pulled away. Johnny Paul had dared Ope to jump it as it pulled away slow but Ope wasn’t about to. It would’ve been easy, but when Ope thought of the chance of his pa’s belt meeting his rear end he thought the wiser. Just being down by the tracks was cause enough for a whippin’. He shuddered at the thought so he high-tailed it away from there and Johnny Paul knew why.

“I gotta idea, Opie,” Johnny Paul said, after they traded I-don’t-know-what-do-you-want-to-do’s to other ideas.
“What?”
“Let’s go to the Courthouse and see your pa.”
Opie shook his head.
“I don’t think so. I’m not s’posed to hang around there.”
“Ahhh…..c’mon, Opie!,” his buddy pleaded.

Johnny Paul Jason was his best friend and although he was a might bit younger, Opie kind of looked up to him. He was always coming up with wise sayings and seemed to be a fair trader of such goods as horsehair’s and smashed pennies. Plus, he found a comrade in his intense dislike of ‘dopey girls’….a true fellowship of the highest order.

“Ok….I’ll race ya!” Off they leaped from the porch in unison as they grabbed their wheels and scrambled away. Miss Rosemary, walking down the street with a fresh blueberry pie she was taking to the ailing Emma Watson, had to balance the pie in one hand and hold on to her hat with the other cause the boys kicked up the wind as they soared by. The taste of blueberry was in the air. Opie was out front, and as they approached the Courthouse he pointed to the alley directing J.P. to follow him around to the rear. Through the back door and slamming it behind them, they hadn’t noticed that Barney was taking his after-Mr.-Cookie-Bar snooze on the cot. Opie was sure that no sound could awaken Fierce Fife, but he shushed Johnny Paul as they tiptoed by.

The office was empty and very, very quiet. The boys hopped up on the oak banister in front of the High Sheriff’s desk. Johnny Paul pointed at the gun rack, but Ope’s eyes widened and he shook his head.
“What’s upstairs, Opie?,” he asked staring at the ceiling.
“The Mayor’s office. Pa could be up there now. Mighty important business,” Ope said proudly.
“What’s in there?,” Johnny Paul asked, pointing at the door in the corner by the window.
“I dunno. I think that’s where pa keeps his stuff. I’m not allowed in there…it’s locked anyway.”
“No it’s not. Look!” Johnny Paul had hopped down and had gone over to try the knob.
“Wow!,” Ope exclaimed as they slowly opened the mysterious door together and peered inside.

A hot, musty, stale air hit them in the face as they entered. The small room seemed like a catacomb from ancient days - a dirty, unvisited haunt that seemed no place for the uninvited. Three wood shelves lined the adjoining wall to cell number two and were piled with boxes. On the floor were the pylons used each year at the Mayberry boy’s races. Two dusty raincoats were drapped over some items on the lower shelf. A light hung loosely from above. Johnny Paul found the switch and snapped it on.
“Let’s go,” Johnny Paul said dejectedly.
“Yeah, this place is creepy….just like the old Rimshaw place.”

Just as the boys started to head out of the dark room, the office door opened. Opie pushed Johnny Paul back in and closed the door after following right behind.
“…. ‘and that’s the way the dipsy-doodle goes’…”
“It’s Otis!,” Opie whispered.
“Oh no!”
“Wait!” Ope opened the door slightly ajar to peek.
“It’s ok. He’s got a snoot full.”
“…. ‘No!….not on the bed….not on the bed…you can stay but you hafta sleep on the floor!,’” Otis cried in his haze to his ol’ buddy buddy pink elephant.
“We’ll give him a few minutes. He’ll be asleep soon,” Opie said assuredly.

Opie reached for the light switch and met Johnny Paul’s hand there, and he let out a little yelp of fright there in the dark. While waiting for the all clear, Opie looked over and saw an old suitcase poking out from underneath one of the raincoats. It was in bad shape, the covering hard and cracked. It was kind of heavy but the two of them managed to pull it down. They dropped to their knees, looked at each other for a moment, their minds on the same wavelength, and Opie snapped open the dull brass levers.

The single light from above reflected back at them from the mouse-colored silk that lined the inside, which was in pristine condition. Johnny Paul reached in and pulled out a bundle of letters tied together with a thin black neck tie. Opie gathered up two baby shoes and chuckled as he held them up and studied them. A pair of tiny flannel pajamas came out next, and both of them giggled in amusement. There were other loose papers, and tucked beneath them was a framed photo amongst some other loose photos of familiar people smiling, their hair combed funny and faces shining bright.

Opie took the frame in both hands and stood up closer to the light. He saw what looked like his own eyes staring back at him.
“Mom,” he said quietly.
“She’s just a girl!,” his companion remarked thoughtfully.
The young woman in the black and white picture with the familiar gentle eyes and delicate features was smiling shyly, and was standing next to a wishing well with climbing vines, with a grand cedar arbor and sweeping gazanias in the background. Opie gazed at her for a bit and noticed that the glass was cracked in one corner. He turned the picture ever so gently but the tired frame let go and the glass slipped out and shattered on the floor.
The boys stood perfectly still….their hearts almost stopping. Johnny Paul peeked out and everything remained still it seemed. Otis was asleep, and Barney was still snoozing with his mouth open and blanket pulled high up so his bare feet were exposed. The door closed gently once more.

Opie flipped the precious photo over and noticed faded writing on the back. It read:

“Opal,” Opie said.
“That’s where Opie came from!”
Opie nodded.
“Yes. Opal Roselyn Summers was her name then.”
He took one more long look at the photo.
“We best put things back now.”
Opie carefully wrapped his mother’s photo inside the tiny flannel pajamas and put them in last, just before they closed up the suitcase and hoisted it back up. The broken glass was pushed underneath the bottom shelf out of view.

Many times Opie would visit that place in the dark. Often with a flashlight he would pull out the photo and visit his mother. Sometimes, out of sadness and loneliness, and other times just to visit and tell her about his day. He didn’t dare to tell his pa about it though. But things would change abruptly for him a couple years after finding this magical hideaway. Mayor Stoner had the area behind the door filled in and a brick wall shutting it forever. All because one day the Mayor, during a meeting with Andy upstairs in his office, noticed the flooring above that room squeaked as he paced back and forth during one of his simmering tirades.
“Needs shored up below. Listen to this, Andrew,” he said, as he demonstrated by comically shifting weight from one foot to the other.
“Too many fat Mayors over the years,” Andy said, thinking out loud with a mischievous smile.
The Mayor gave him a stone glare.

I close this story with Opie’s own words, copied directly from his letter, and far more eloquent than my own:

“Why did my pa keep the suitcase there, behind the door to that dusty room, instead of at home I do not know. Maybe in his grief? That will have to go unanswered. I am thankful to Barney for rescuing it, and realizing its importance. He saw me moping around one day soon after the wall had been put in, and after explaining my anguish he assured me the suitcase was safe and sound. For awhile he kept it at his place at Mrs. Mendlebright’s rooming house – then he stowed it away in our garage….right next to his old trunk of valuables: his daddy’s rock, The Cutlass, and other treasures and keepsakes. Bless his heart!”

“And now, I have it here with me – with pa’s blessing. My wife and I spent a Sunday afternoon perusing the contents of the old suitcase that we now keep in a Dutch oak chest at the foot of our bed. The letters are sweet and fascinating, from an age gone by. Like the writing on the back of that wonderful photo, each letter from my mother begins ‘My beloved Andrew,’ and ends with ‘Much Love, Opal.’”

“I have no memory of Opal, like I have memories of Mr. McBeevee, or the time I raised Winken, Blinken and Nod, but I like to think that, just maybe, my small hands might have brushed against her delicate face.”

“Best Wishes,
Opie Taylor"

"p.s. Al…if you want, tell them about the day Mr. McBeevee came to dinner.”

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