My Grandfather’s Cellar
Before beginning this assignment, I too had always perceived that a “sanctuary” was a place of religious significance-a church, mosque or a temple; however, my perception of a sanctuary was dramatically changed over the weekend. I went home to my grandfather’s cellar-my sanctuary.
Ever since a child, I have been both frightened and amazed by household cellars. As I am writing this, my memory is instantly jogged by the imaginary smell of must and decay. I have returned to my five year old self; I am scared and curious. I see myself standing on the downstairs landing; I wait for my grandfather to come-up. I never go down. In all actuality, my conceptualization of “sanctuary” does not fit into the hierophantic models of J.Z. Smith or Elide. In many ways, our perceptions of sanctuaries are places that don’t necessarily have a religious message. Regardless, they are inviting and provide a sense of contentment. Even though my grandfather’s cellar was dark and sometimes uninviting, it provided me with a sense of comfort and protection, especially after his death.
The creation of my grandfather’s sanctuary was intentional; it allowed him to escape the chaotic working and family environments that he was exposed to on a daily basis. It also stood as a repository of objects that he had collected over the years, especially those that meant something to him. In contrast to my grandfather's cellar, Keith Basso article, "Wisdom Sits in Places," further discusses how the Apache gain knowledge through their natural surroundings. The Apache committed experience to permanent memory and by doing so, it solidified their connection to the landscape. In comparison, my endless hours spent in the cellar with my grandfather are similar to that of the Apache. My familiarity with the space insured my grandfather’s legacy through the preservation of memory. He instilled a story in each of these objects because he did not want his sanctuary to become unaltered. Even today, I know every object in his cellar and every story behind it.
After my fear of cellars subsided as an adult, I spent many afternoons in his cellar. I have so many memories. There is one particular afternoon that I can recall. Here, I will further write about. I can remember that it was the first time since I had went into the cellar by myself after his death. As I opened the door to the cellar, I was instantly confronted with the botched construction job my grandfather had done trying to put up cabinets. As I made my way down the long planked pine stairs, I got to the bottom of the landing; I felt the coldness radiating from the house’s cement foundation that surrounded me. As I reached for the light, the smell of metal and old clothes invaded my nostrils. I pulled up a chair in the center so that I could take in everything around me. Usually, my grandfather would assign me to a task, whether it be breaking up a couch or fixing an electrical outlet. I got off my seat, grabbed the step ladder and reached for the rafters through the cobwebs. I pulled down a semi-rectangular dark green box. I let my hand run over the rivets at the side of the box. I had found the Phonola (a 1940’s record player that only plays 78” records and smells like hell). I was told that the object was once owned by heavy whiskey drinking opera fanatics. As I delicately lifted the lid, I pulled it back and strapped it into place. My hand slided to the back, where a bunch of old 78”s were stored; some of them had began to crumble. There was one in particular that I was looking for, Louis Jordan’s “These Socks Don’t Match.” As the music played, I strolled from one side of the cellar to the other looking at objects that caught my attention.
Unlike many other sanctuaries. Most that are considered to be extremely public. My grandfather’s cellar was an environment that promoted privacy. There are no time constraints there. I explored the space at my leisure. For me, my grandfather’s cellar was a sanctuary because it evoked memories of comfort. It was a place where I was free of distractions and other people. It was a place that has allowed me to explore my own identity.
Louis Jordan: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCWUvI7yKtQ&feature=related
Posted at Mar 18/2008 09:05AM:
Heidi: It is interesting to think about the way in which one deliberately creates a sanctuary space, namely through the careful arrangement of memorable objects. By sharing the stories behind each component of his sanctuary, your grandfather seems to have found a way to extend the relevance of this highly personal space, even though no other person will be able to connect with its elements in quite the same way. Your piece also made me think about how important it is for people to story their objects, or to use objects as receptacles of memory. I have had similar experiences with family members who seem compelled to transmit at least some appreciation for the things they will leave behind one day -- as if the significance of an object outlasts the person for whom it was significant. I also thought that cellars are good example of a space that makes one feel rather uncomfortable at first, but also provides an opportunity to conquer some of that anxiety through exploration and increasing familiarity.
Posted at Mar 18/2008 09:19AM:
Elisa: I really like your observation that sanctuary can be deeply personal and relational. The space used to incite a sense of fear, but now, it is the things that fill this space that make you recognize its sacral qualities. I feel as though our definition of sanctuary in all of these responses relates not to the question of religion, but of security, of comfort, and most of all, of memory.
Posted at Mar 18/2008 09:41AM:
Keffie: What I find particularly striking about your discussion is how ultimately the space of your sanctuary is deeply tied to the actions of another person. This space was created by your grandfather to be a sanctuary of sorts for himself, and through a process of initiation (interaction with, and communication of the significance of the space and the things in it) he was able to bring you into his own sacred space. Would this space have the same meaning for you if it were associated with someone for whom you cared less? Would it have the same meaning if the position of the objects changed, or someone finished the cabinets? My sense of it is that part of what makes this space meaningful is its ability for you to reconnect with the memory of your grandfather through the material traces of his own actions, thoughts, and feelings.
Claudia: As I read your depiction of a sanctuary, I keep recalling our class discussions about "storied places." Your sanctuary seems to especially resonate with you because of its connection with another person, his possessions, the 'aura' of his presence. The place itself provides the arena for your memories of you in the past to interact with you in the present. Only in this place of "comfort and protection," only in this sanctuary, does the past become the present.
