Ever since I can remember, I’ve had an aversion to pickles.
When I was little, my grandmother would send me down cellar to bring up a jar, for sandwiches for lunch, or maybe a jar of marmalade for breakfast— I would start to tremble just at the thought of going down to those long, cool rows of jars, all filled with things that had once been alive and vibrant, and were now shriveled, shrunken, discolored versions of themselves, floating helplessly in sinister-looking brines, or jelled into sticky, pulpy masses.
Gran would stand at the top of the stairs, her long shadow falling down them, and scold: “Hurry, boy! I’ll pickle you if you’re not back up by the time I count to ten!” I wasn’t the only kid around scared of Gran—the neighborhood kids all avoided her— but I never knew anybody else scared of pickles and jars.
Anyway, the aversion grew worse as I got older, becoming pretty much a phobia by the time I was in my twenties. It caused some awkward social situations, but mostly I could live with it. My wife thought it was kind of cute.
Or she did. Now, we’re down in Gran’s cellar, cleaning. Gran passed away last week.
We’ve got to clean the place before we can sell it. All these jars, more preserves than any one person could ever use—and I’m finally figuring out my fear of pickles, and jars, and why the neighborhood kids were all as scared of Gran as I was…my wife is starting to get a little hysterical….
"Just throw them in the trash, don’t look," I advise, remembering from my youth how some of the jars seemed to have things in them that looked almost like body parts, or eyes, or ears. " Just tell yourself it’s only pickles …."
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Credits to: Queenofscots
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