Memories of my Grandfather
by Rhoda Knight Kalt

It was a steamy 90 degrees! June in New York! The sidewalk baked the soles of our shoes. And our heads felt woozy. Yet I was walking on clouds of joy, for today we were leaving New York city to spend three wonderful months on Cape Cod. The whole family was going. My mother; my grandmother, Nonnie; my grandfather, Toppy; my brother, Knight; and me.

Father had offered to drive all of us up to Woods Hole-all of us, that is, except my brother, who became ill with the mere mention of any car ride and was now comfortably seated with his nurse on the Cape Cod train (the "Cape Codder", alas, now a thing of the past). My father had made one request, though, in agreeing to act as chauffeur-that most of the luggage be sent on ahead by railway express.

When we left my parents' home to pick up my grandparents, the car was already packed with a couple of suitcases, a huge bundle of linen, a carton of canned food, three pillows, a picnic lunch basket, Penny, out fox terrier, my parents and me.

"Isn't it a good thing your grandparents have sent most of their belongings ahead?" Father commented as we drove out of Central Park and turned down toward Fifth avenue. "We'll be cramped for room as it is."

"Yes. We were very wise for once," my mother answered.

Our car pulled up beside the curb at 24 West 59th street. (My grandparents' home in New York city; also Toppy's studio. This apartment building has been torn down, replaced by a large, modern one.)

"Where are they?" Father asked. "I can't stay here long. We're blocking the entranceway to the building. They said they'd be on time."

"I'm sure they'll be right down," my mother said reassuringly.

Many minutes elapsed. Suddenly, Toppy and Nonnie emerged from the lobby.

"Oh no!" gasped Father. "Where on earth are we going to put those?" He pointed to the heavy valises which they were trying to maneuver down the steps.

My grandparents saw us, and their faces burst into radiant smiles. Father rushed to help them. After great heaving and pushing, he managed to get their bags into the trunk.

"All set?" he asked hopefully.

"Just one or two more little things," Toppy replied, striding back into the lobby.

He appeared with a large, glass aquarium whose bottom was full of grass, freshly pulled from Central Park. This was to prevent our turtle, Johnnie, from getting bumped against the glass walls if we had to stop suddenly on the highway.

"Rhoda, dear, raise your legs," Toppy said, as he placed the aquarium on the floor below me. "You keep an eye on Johnnie for Top, please," He slammed the door and disappeared again.

He came back out with Vincent, the elevator man, who was helping him to carry three enormous canvasses, a large wooden paint box, another velise containing lecture slides, a hot water bottle which fell to the sidewalk, a bulging pillowcase filled with something, and an extra thermos of tap water in case of emergency.

Toppy opened the rear door and moved the aquarium as far back under my legs as possible. The canvasses were placed in front of the turtle tank, leaving me with limbs twisted into pretzels.

"Now Rhoda," Toppy started giving directions. "Be careful of your knees. They must not touch the canvasses or you may put a hole through one. And every once in a while, look to be sure the floor of Johnnie's tank isn't getting too warm. If it does, we'll have to stop and dampen it. And these are my glass lecture slides beside you, here on the floor. If the car stops suddenly, try to hold them steady with your foot."

"We've got everything," he commented a minute later as he climbed into the seat beside the driver. "We really didn't bring much this time, did we? Everyone comfortable?"

Father turned on the engine, shifted gears, and the car rolled forward. We were on our way to Woods Hole, a journey of two hundred and fifty miles. It took most people eight hours of leisurely driving. It took us twelve very hectic hours, made up of many starts and stops.

The car needed gas. My legs cramped and needed stretching. Johnnie's tank needed dampening. Penny wished a romp. Nonnie and I craved ice cream cones, which we dripped over everything. Nonnie felt chilly from the ice cream cones, so a blanket had to be tugged from the trunk for her. Mother wanted a sandwich and decided that the ones we had brought along looked gummy, so we stopped at a Howard Johnson's. About seven o'clock, Toppy wanted to stand beside the highway to admire the sunset.

Finally, after midnight, we arrived at Woods Hole.

The car was parked as near to the door as possible.

"I wish we could help but there's so much to be done inside," Mother said as we women walked away, leaving poor Toppy and Father to struggle with the unpacking. Penny raced about the lawn, barking loudly to announce to neighbors that the Knights and Steels had arrived.

"Nan, please step outside for a moment," Toppy called at two in the morning. "You really ought to see this gorgeous sky."

I pressed my nose against the gritty screen of the window and watched my grandparents from my bed. I could just barely make them out by the street lights.

A series of meows came from the other side of the house.

"There's that damn cat, Blackie. He's stuck in the tree again. Come help me get him down."

My grandparents' voices faded, as they strolled down the slope beyond the kitchen.

Clink. Clink. Rattle. Rattle. I saw the skunks outside. Maybe they had heard Penny's barking and had come to investigate.

"Stinky's back too." Toppy's voice. "And doesn't he look well?. Let's leave some food out for him. Tonight he'll find the garbage pail empty."

The door banged.

"How does Toppy know it's the same Stinky?" I wondered. "Maybe he's not the same skunk at all."

My eyelids closed.

That summer was the first of many which I was to spend at Woods Hole, where my grandparents, Nonnie and Toppy owned one of the oldest houses on Cape Cod. A house of aged beauty, history, mystery, and love. One which offered a little girl a paradise all her own. Large, rambling, gray shingled, and three storied, our precious house had stoically withstood many a hurricane for well over two centuries. It graced a hill on Quisset Avenue.

Climbing up either side of the front door were masses of red rambler roses. Each July these delicate buds opened their glorious crimson petals. Touching clear across the door's high arch, they stretched their brilliance to parts of the wall on either side. Our roses were the pride of the community. People stopped to admire them and sniff their fragrance.

The narrow wooden steps which led from street level up to the front lawn were usually badly in need of repair. When stepped upon, they played a tune which we called, "Musical Squeaks." Toppy's foot got trapped as a step splintered. "Oh, damn it!! I thought this stupid board had been replaced."

Everyone fell in love with our home. The uneven staircase with the bumpy lavender steps could be seen through the front screen door and give visitors a gay welcome. Lavender was Grandmother's favorite color. Thus, not only was the staircase decorated this startling shade, but most of the floors and much of the furniture throughout the entire house. Each summer, Toppy repainted faded spots, and the job of trying to match this impossible color accurately defied him in every room. Our house boasted every conceivable shade of pinky, lavender purple.

The living room was to the left of the front door. The old plaster walls were prepared a warm grey, while the table, desk, chairs and floor were lavender. The sateen window curtains were deep purple and somehow always gave the appearance of being unironed. The sofa, a disguised, made-over cot, was dressed with purple chintz and bedecked with four unmatched pillows. They didn't match each other or anything else in the room. The sofa stood against a wall, beside a smoke-blackened hearth and fireplace. Hot evenings, cool evenings, no matter which, my grandparents built a crackling, roaring fire, Each night, after dinner, the sofa sagged with the weight of too many, for Nonnie would sit at one end, Toppy lolled at the other, and in between my brother, Knight, and myself would snuggle cozily. Together, we watched the fire's long arms reaching high up the chimney and, as we chattered, our eyes were held spellbound by the spurting orange cinders.

A straw mat with numerous holes lay in the center of the living room and was called "the carpet." One's heel constantly caught as one ran through this room to the "dutch room." Since Knight and I were the only runners in the family, we were also the regular fallers, and our knees were usually in a state of bandage.

The rusty colored "dutch room" with its brick dutch oven and another colorful hearth was our family room. Alongside the old oven hung three or four enormously long-handled, black, iron tongs and pots and pans. These cooking utensils were probably older than the house.

"This is where Cape Codders used to cook all their meals," Toppy would point out to guests.

The oven's small door had been sealed for many years. Knight and I worked hard, combining our strength, trying to yank loose the oven door handle and pry the edges. But this mysterious portal never opened for us. Actually, it was really much more exciting to sit and speculate about rare treasures than to really discover them.

The "dutch room" gave me a gloomy feeling. The furniture was built of dark woods, and the heavy curtains which covered the hand-blown, multi-paned windows barely let in a ray of light. Often someone napped on the short, uncomfortable sofa which sat back against these dusty draperies.

A large, round table stood in the middle of the floor. Toppy would sit there for hours, running a delicate hand through his wavy, silver-white hair, while with the other he sketched on the table cloth. I leaned, propped against his legs, as he spoke of many things, often describing the animals he was drawing -- strange creatures like Tyrannosaurus Rex, wooly mammoths, Sabre-toothed Tigers.

A feature of the dutch room was its six, different sized doors. One was offered little privacy or quiet for four of the hand-hewn doors were constantly banging open and shut. The other two were smaller, and where they led was a mystery. Toppy suspected one opened up an old back staircase, perhaps leading to another attic hidden among the eaves.

From the "dutch room" one looked into a room which was used both as Toppy's workshop and toolroom. Here he stored dozens of boxes, overflowing with weird-shaped tools. Here also were partly used cans of enamel for patching the house and delicious smelling tubes of oils for his canvasses. The room was shared by Nonnie. Here she was forever mixing up concoctions of seafood and meat and spices for tea parties and storing them inside an old, square, "ice box." Twice a week, a hefty man stumbled across our hilly lawn, carrying two enormous blocks of ice, gripped by huge black tongs. Nonnie would poke at these chunks of ice with a sharp pick and hand me some "icicles" to suck.

The house had other rooms I loved. Surely, if an antique dealer had climbed the long, winding back staircase, ducking his head the entire way, he would have found heaven in our attic. Toppy and I rummaged through it regularly.

We sat for hours midst musty odors and very dusty belongings. In one dingy corner, there stood an old spinning wheel, now a home for spiders. As though draped in lace, dainty cobwebs were spun in between the spokes of this aged wheel. Another gloomy niche held a large black bathing tub and two china wash basins. The vibration of our feet on the old timber floor rocked a wooden cradle. I was particularly intrigued with the cradle and imagined that it held an invisible baby. Nonnie told me that, while trying to fall asleep at night, she had heard rocking noises coming from the attic over her bed.

Next to the cradle, stood a battered trunk full of old letters and diaries. Toppy would sit on the floor and read them out loud to me. How funny they were I giggled continuously.

Sometimes, spotting a grimy garment, I would drag it out of its box and prance around, pulling it along the floor behind me, while Toppy, amused, would gently scold.

"Now put that dress right back where it belongs, Rhoda, before your grandmother catches you."

At times, Toppy would simply walk about, tenderly touching each object, and then sit down on the floor again by the tiny glass window. From this spot he was able to let his eyes wander across our lawn to the neighbor's beautiful flower garden.

I mustn't forget to water their daisies tonight," he'd remind himself. "And I must sprinkle their grass a bit. It's looking yellow. Such a lovely garden. We can't just let it whither."

The nicest beach in Woods Hole was Nobska and it was privately owned by Henry Fay Jr. and his family, who loaned its natural beauty to the community. Toppy and I would walk upon powder-white sand and watch the foamy waves roll to shore, carrying seaweed of many colors. Nobska was unlike other beaches. No dirty papers. No ugly debris. Nothing here spoiled God's magnificent creation. Sand dunes rose behind us, and the tall, white Nobska lighthouse stood atop the bluff. A gay, red buoy rode upon the waves, once in a while appearing to have difficulty keeping its balance. We used to sit just watching this jolly bell bounce and listening to it sound its warning to the passing craft that dangerous rocks were nearby.

Toppy looked forward to his morning swim in this clear, sparkling water of Vineyard sound which, during July and August, seldom went below 70 degrees. To ready for his dip, he would disappear into a borrowed bath house to reappear shortly in a woolen swim suit which had both trunks and top. (Men were obliged then to wear tops with their swimming trunks on Nobska beach.)

He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to shield his mass of white hair from the sun and big, round, tinted glasses to protect his delicate eyes. Scuffing his feet through the sand, he greeted everyone on the beach with a smile and a little chat.

Heading in the direction of the water, Toppy suddenly found himself surrounded by screaming grandchildren and their young friends. We would pass Nonnie dog-paddling at the edge of the water. Grandmother was petrified of the water and I never saw her once go more than ankle deep. In fact, I am certain the only reason she got wet at all was because Toppy kept telling her how good it was for her health.

Knight loved the water. He always plunged in without fear and glided straight to the distant float. I swam slower, enveloped in bright orange water wings. When I finally reached the float, gasping for breath, I begged Knight to boost me up the ladder. Shivering, but too scared to jump back in the water alone, especially since jelly-fish might be around, I would wait patiently for Knight to escort his sister safely back to shore. Enjoying my dependence on him thoroughly, he would make me wait a long time.

He stood searching for Nonnie and Toppy against the sun's glare. After they had been spotted, he screamed to them, demanded their full attention, assured by violent waving from both of them, before he would demonstrate his skill at diving off the high board. I watched, full of admiration when this human fish somersaulted three times in the air, straightened and broke the surface of the water.

"Hurry into shore, children," Grandfather ordered as we swam up and hung on his extended arms.

"Join your grandmother. She's right over there," he'd order. Toppy did not care for the responsibility of children swimming out over their heads, and we knew better than to argue.

After our swim we went home to lunch.

My bed became a scene of chaos as I bounced about. The foot of the bed was always higher than my pillow, for the floors were quite uneven. So uneven that frequently my bureau tumbled over and needed to be propped up again on cardboard blocks. The rest period dragged forever, and my eyes seldom left the alarm clock which I held tightly between my hands. There were many ways to cheat. Getting a drink of water. Refolding my dress over the back of the chair. Rising ten minutes early to replace my blankets neatly at the foot of the bed. My ears listened intently for those familiar sounds which would mean that Nonnie and Toppy were dressing for tea.

This meant perfume for me, which I was permitted to dab behind my ears and on one or two spots on my arms. But if Nonnie turned her back, I quickly splashed some on my knees and felt it running down my legs.

Bouncing down the lavender stairs to reclaim my shoes, I would smell like a whole garden of violets. I stuffed my toes deep inside my white oxfords, oblivious to the tightly knotted laces. Toppy appeared with his hairbrush and comb. Though it annoyed me to stand so still, I allowed my grandfather to brush my long, snarled hair and encourage the waves into curls.

"Stop moving, child! How do you expect your hair to be pretty without care?? To keep a horse's coat beautiful requires constant grooming!" One was always being compared to some handsome animal and always taking second place.

While Toppy was yanking out the last snarls, Nonnie was trying to make a pretty bow out of the heavily starched sash on my "best" dress.

Flying through the house I'd inspect the dainty sandwiches, cookies and candies which were laid out upon the kitchen table. I'd watch Nonnie as she poured boiling water from a heavy, dented kettle into a bright, shiny copper teapot.

Our kitchen windows overlooked the back lawn. The ground rolled sharply away for a long distance. At the very bottom, I could just barely see Toppy admiring his enormous pink primroses. I dashed to join him. These flowers were his pride and joy. He would carefully inspect the leaves to be certain insects weren't making a meal of them.

"See these blossoms, Rhoda? When I planted this, it was one tiny stalk in a clay pot. Wish I'd never done it. Look at this damn thing now! Overgrown the entire backyard. No room left to move."

But his face beamed, and he bent to small each blossom.

Every afternoon, Nonnie and Toppy held a tea party, that is, unless they were attending one. If I had taken my nap properly and promised to be extra polite, I would be allowed to pass the plate of lobster, crabmeat and cheese sandwiches. Occasionally, I was allowed to pass Nonnie's own blend of tea, which was served in deep purple, glass cups on lace covered saucers. This tea, which she called the "Hardcastle blend" (Hardcastle was her maiden name), took six months to make properly, shaking the tin faithfully and adding a new "pinch of something" daily.

It was at these tea parties that I was privileged to meet some of the world's most eminent scientists. They summered in Woods Hole, giving time to their research at the Marine Biological Laboratory or the Oceanographic.

These scientists showed utter patience in encouraging Toppy to bring along his skinny grandchild when he visited their laboratories. Once I had to be assisted by one of these prominent men, Dr. Robert Chambers, through a rather sad crisis. My hamster, Jenny, had teeth which kept growing till they had punctured the roof of her tiny mouth. Toppy and I, both of us practically in tears, carried the poor creature to a research office where a friend took her little wire cage out of our clinging arms and said that the only kind act was to put Jenny quietly to sleep.

I recall, with embarrassment, the faux pas I made while trying to be on my best behavior for Nonnie and Toppie's friends. One afternoon, I passed a plate of food to a guest who was afflicted with paralysis. When bringing the little sandwich up to her mouth, she found she could not swallow, and the food spilled to the floor. Fearful of hurting this poor woman's feelings, I summoned my courage and said, "Oh, please don't feel badly. These nasty sandwiches fall out of everybody's mouth."

Then there was the day a young neighbor, Margaret Cowdry, daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Edmund Vincent Cowdry, whose house overlooked Eel pond, joined me in paying a call on an elderly scientist.

He had been too ill during the summer to attend any of our tea parties. I had overheard Toppy say he didn't think the man would live long.

His wife answered the doorbell. "Good afternoon," I said. "We just came by to see if your husband has died yet."

The poor woman was stunned, but a charming host quickly appeared from behind her and greeted us with a broad smile.

"How kind of you children to ask about me! I am happy to report that I am still quite alive."

I didn't realize what a dreadful mistake I had made until I reached home and bragged about how grown up I had been. I was given a rude awakening.

Toppy would often paint for a few hours before dinner. I can see him so well, standing by his easel, bending to the canvas.

Whenever he wished to see detail, he would raise his thick, heavy glasses off his rather prominent nose and, pushing them up against his forehead, hold his subject right to the naked eye, almost brushing it with his long lashes.

His eyes were never of the best. At the age of six a tragedy befell him, an accident which proved to be a handicap for the rest of his life.

One day at play a boy carelessly tossed a small stone, striking my grandfather directly in his open right eye. The blow knocked him to the ground and blood came from his eye socket. He was carried home in a dazed condition. The doctor came at once. Toppy was promptly put to bed in a darkened room where he was made to lie for six weeks in misery and pain. When the bandage was finally removed, though Toppy could see fairly well, an undetermined amount of damage had been done.

With the right eye impaired, an extraordinary amount of strain fell on his left which was already nearsighted and astigmatic to a marked degree. Within a few years, he began to realize his inability to distinguish objects clearly at a distance. Of course, this was a catastrophe for an artist. The rest of his life he had to do intricate and delicate work with only one poor eye at best. This continuous strain contributed a good deal to his rather high-strung nature.

Frequently he devoted several hours a day just to retouching a canvas or difficult drawing. An entire afternoon would pass and Toppy would still be painting one small area. I'd stand watching him push his glasses to his forehead, point his brush toward a minute spot on the canvas, touch it, replace his glasses, step away and study his work at a distance. After repeating the procedure innumerable times, he'd lay down his palette and say, "Well, I've done the best I can do."

Being a perfectionist where technique, color, and anatomy were concerned, Toppy was never fully satisfied. Upon finishing his day's work, he'd appear in the living room with his canvas and question the family.

"What do you think of this now?" or "Isn't this coloring better?" But no matter how perfect we felt it might be, Toppy was the authority, and it was always his own vote that was the deciding factor.

After his late afternoon painting session, Toppy would remove his soft, blue smock, push his long arms through the sleeves of a tweed jacket and button it to the top, covering much of his shirt and leaving only a bright chinese silk tie on view. A straw hat completed the outfit.

"Come on Rhoda", he'd call as he pushed open the squeaky screen door. "Wouldn't you like to come along?" He stepped out into the sunset.

Our house was approximately half a mile from the village. It was a lovely walk. Toppy and I passed by the Eel pond. We never saw an eel. And we had our faces brushed by the tall cat-tails which grew in the sandy swamp and leaned over the walk. We inhaled deeply, thoroughly enjoying the taste of salty breezes as we neared the village and bay. We'd stroll right along the waterfront and sit down on the dock. We'd strain our eyes to catch a first glimpse of the steamer returning from Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Sometimes as evening drew near and the fog rolled in, the fog horn sounded loud and eerie, a thrilling sound to our ears.

We sat with our legs dangling over the sea wall. Our faces turned pink and our clothes became damp.

Toppy related many fascinating stories.

"See this scar on my hand. You'd never guess how I got that."

I shook my head.

"A bucket holding three of the most colorful Portuguese men-of-war was brought into Woods Hole by a vessel."

"Though these jellyfish were beautiful to look at, beneath their bright balloon-tops hung dozens of poisonous tentacles. Stupidly I reached down to touch one of these primitive creatures, and my hand brushed a tentacle. It was one of the most painful experiences I ever had. It burned this scar so deep that, as you can see, I've got it to this day."

I was duly impressed.

"Then there was the time I fell off the edge of a dock into a huge fishing net."

"I was so busy admiring the freshly caught fish, My God! What magnificent color tone and iridescence! Well, in leaning down to get a better look, I bent a trifle too far and fell right into the slimy mass. The first thing I worried about when they pulled me out of the net was my watch."

Toppy drew his round gold timepiece from out of his pocket and dangled it by its long gold chain.

"This is the only possession of my father's that I have." Toppy felt sentimental about his watch and often fingered it while talking.

After supper, Nonnie and I sat together out on the front lawn to watch the Evening Star and Big Dipper against the blue-black sky. Our couch glided back and forth noiselessly, touching against a tall, broad hedge.

"Nonnie, please see if the fairy godmother is home," I begged.

""I'll try, if you sit very still," she answered always, to my heart's delight. She would then snip a pointed deep green leaf from the hedge and hold it tightly against her ear.

"Sh-h-h. I hear something," she would say.

I tried to capture the magic myself.

"Can't you hear a voice Rhoda?" she'd ask.

I'd listen intently to the leaf pressed hard against my ear and shake my head with disappointment.

"The fairy godmother wants to know if you've been good today, Rhoda?"

I'd nod.

"She says she's had nothing to eat all day. Could you take time to put out a saucer of milk and honey before going to bed?"

I'd start up from the glider.

"Not yet, dear. She says you must wait until you have had your bath and are in your nightgown. Then just before you jump under the blankets, you may leave her meal on the kitchen table. You must be fast asleep before she'll pay us a visit."

I was thrilled. The following morning I dashed to the kitchen to inspect the saucer. Sure enough it was empty and sparkling clean, the honey and milk all eaten and in its place a bright, new penny.

"This penny is a very special one," Nonnie explained. "It was made in the magical world of fairyland, where all wishes come true if you are good, thoughtful, and always obey your grandparents."

Toppy's "workshop-tool room" served still another purpose. It was one of the busiest stores in Woods Hole, for Knight and I had adopted it for our own use. Every week we were permitted to wander throughout the house, rummaging for any saleable objects. Toppy and Nonnie were our chief donors. After collecting our wares, we placed them on the shelves with care. Then we stood back and checked to make certain that the highest priced items were the most prominently displayed. Running through the halls and tearing up and downstairs, we announced that our store was open.

Toppy and Nonnie were always the first to arrive. Toppy jangled small change in his pockets and Nonnie toted a tiny black purse. Probably they were afraid that we would sell one of their life-long possessions to someone else for two cents. They examined each object with the greatest of care as though they had never seen them before. They lifted each article off the shelf, fingered it speculatively, and turned it over, this way and that, in their hands. Sometimes they took it to the window to get a better look at it in the light.

After much deliberation they decided on three or four pieces but only if we would reconsider our prices. My brother and I quickly huddled and agreed on holding a sale. Graciously purchasing back their own property, my grandparents departed, leaving Knight and me to wrap the items for delivery. Then, we would busily count our day's profits as we perched on the old wooden steps.

One rainy afternoon, Knight and I came to the conclusion our store needed a fresh coat of paint. Momentarily we forgot it was Toppy's room too. We searched for a suitable enamel. The only color we could find in any quantity was a can of pitch-black.

Toppy was horrified by our endeavor. We were hustled off to our beds, leaving a room half grey and half black. We were ordered to remain in isolation for the rest of the day. After that bizarre episode, we had to retire as shopkeepers, forbidden ever to use Toppy's room again.

Special shopping was saved for Falmouth, four miles away. I don't know who looked forward more to these delightful drives along cool, tree-lined roads, Toppy or I. Grandfather always chose to sit in the front seat from which he could admire each tree.

Since neither of my grandparents could drive an automobile, we were utterly dependent on friends offering both cars and themselves. Anyway, had Toppy been the driver, we would have undoubtedly ended up in the hospital. He couldn't be bothered watching the road. His mind was always occupied with trees, berries, blossoms, flowers, sky coloring, cloud effects and any lovely sight that came to view.

"Toppy, please take me to Blueberries," I'd start to beg from the second our car left the driveway. "Can we have an ice cream cone? Double-decker?"

How exciting the familiar sights were as we drove into the center of Falmouth. "Blueberries" was J. J. Newberry, the five and ten cent store.

The three of us headed for the entrance. Nonnie and Toppy would each slip a quarter into my hand to spend recklessly on anything that stole my fancy. I was spellbound by the hundreds of intriguing items which beckoned me from counter to counter.

"Should I buy this?" I'd ask, holding up a gaudy rhinestone ring. "Do you think it's real?" I plagued Toppy.

He smiled and placed it on my finger.

"Yes. It certainly looks so to me. I believe it belongs at Tiffany's. My gracious! Mr. Tiffany must have dropped it here by mistake. What luck you've had!!

Toppy's trip to Falmouth was never complete without a visit to the hardware store.

Occasionally, we were treated to an extra drive to lunch at Howard Johnson's in Buzzards Bay.

A baby robin had been picked up on the railroad tracks with an injured wing. A boy, knowing Toppy's devotion to animals, brought the helpless animal to our home.

Robby, as we named him, squawked in terror when Toppy first held him gently, fluttered his wings as though in an attempt to fly away. Eventually, fatigue overcame him and Robby fell back, helpless.

"You poor, poor creature," Toppy whispered.

I followed my grandfather into the house. He brought forth a wooden box which had been hidden in the depths of his "workshop".

"It is important to make him feel cozy, to give him a little home of his own, where he knows he belongs."

A tiny pillow was placed at the bottom of the carton, covered with a piece of flannel torn from one of Toppy's long nightshirts. Our feathery baby was carefully laid right into the pillow's soft middle. Then my grandfather warmed a tablespoon of milk. While I held the spoon steady, he kept refilling the dropper and slowly, drop by drop, eased it down Robby's throat. The bird's quivering stopped. He seemed comforted by Toppy's voice.

"You poor little fella. Yes, you're going to be all right. Don't you worry. Top will see to that."

Within a couple of days, Robby was hopping about the house. And then it wasn't long before he was chasing at our heels. During the following weeks, we spent hours trying to train Robby to care for himself. He had to regain courage to fly again, now that his wing was fully healed.

The summer was drawing to an end. Soon we must leave Woods Hole and return to New York.

The day came when Robby was taken outdoors and told it was time to fly away.

"You must return to your own, little one. You are well and we want you to enjoy other robin friends."

Lifting Robby high in his arms, he gave him a spring upwards. The bird took to flight immediately and disappeared. Yet within minutes he came back to make certain we were standing where he had left us. Assured, he winged off again.

An entire week passed. Robby was still paying us visits and demanding tidbits. We were growing worried for unless this little creature soon learned to join others of his kind in the wild state, he would not survive the cold months ahead.

Robby's visits became less frequent. And then one day, he came no more.

We walked down the worn, grey steps to the south entrance of the American Museum of Natural History in New York and pushed our way through the heavy revolving door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Knight." The checkroom attendant took our overcoats. "I see you've brought your granddaughter along."

We headed for the elevators. Our footsteps on the hard, marble floors echoed through the vast exhibition rooms and sounded like giants walking.

We came upon a bench where a young art student with pad and pencil in hand sat facing one of the superb animal groups. Toppy peered over the young man's shoulder. He watched him erase the leg of an Alaskan bear.

"Here, let me show you how."

The student, startled, stopped drawing to look around. Toppy lifted the charcoal from his hand, stooped and began to sketch across the pad.

"Now, just watch me carefully," he said. "I think you'll find this technique more what you want. First, you turn your pencil so. In this way you get the proper angle."

Within moments, Toppy had sketched in the entire bear and added the salmon in the bear's paw! When Toppy finished, the boy rose.

"Thank you sir," he said. "Thank you very much."

Toppy smiled. We continued on our way to lunch.

"I first visited this museum sixty years ago," Toppy said as we rode an enormous elevator down to the cafeteria. "My father brought me here as a treat on my fifth birthday. It was love at first sight. At that time, the American Museum was just a single, red brick building, nowhere near as big as it is now. But its long, tiled halls which overflowed with glassy eyed birds and animals held me spellbound. I had never seen such thrilling sights before and I wandered for hours, gaping at everything. It was heaven for a boy who loved all kinds of wild life as much as I did."

The elevator came to a halt.

As we neared the cafeteria, Toppy had to stop talking. He couldn't shout above the din. It was always noisy at this hour, but its clamour was sheer music to my ears. We edged our way among people, chairs and tables.

Our trays filled, our eyes searched the room. "Over there," Toppy gestured. "That table under the zebras."

A scientist came to our table. "Hello, Charles. I thought I'd find you here today," he said and took a chair. Several more joined us. Soon there were seven jammed together at a table meant for four. It happened every time Toppy ate at the museum cafeteria.

Lunch became a party. Toppy listened to them all enthusiastically.

"Charles, be sure to see the baby mammoth they just brought in upstairs," one of the men said.

"Yes, I'd heard about it," Toppy told him.

Lunch passed quickly.

Upon reaching the first floor, Toppy walked to a passageway which was walled off by a big wooden partition on wheels. A sign proclaimed it "Closed to the Public." He rolled the barrier forward a little so we could squeeze through.

Behind it men were working on a new exhibition. One was sitting atop a ladder, transforming the upper walls and ceiling of the diorama into a realistic blue sky. Several more were below, painting in the trees and foliage of a jungle setting. And the last man was making a floor plan to show where the animals should be placed. Toppy loved to "talk shop" with the artists. Everytime they prepared a new display, he made it a point to drop in for a few minutes.

During the next hour, we roamed all over. We walked beneath a monstrous great blue whale, suspended from the ceiling, and gazed up at the grinning skull of a gigantic Tyrannosaurus Rex. When we came to Toppy's prehistoric murals, he wouldn't let me stop.

"I didn't come to the museum to see these," he said.

About four o'clock, he hurried me to the fifth floor, where the scientists worked and had their offices.

Strange odors burned my nose and throat in the tannery of the taxidermy department. The most powerful fumes were rising from a large, black tub in the center of the floor. I stayed as far away from it as possible.

"When I first decided to be an animal painter, I spent most of my time here," Toppy told me. "It's one of the best places in the world to really learn something about animal anatomy. A man named John Rowley was head taxidermist then and he and I became very good friends. He gave me a wonderful education. He carefully called my attention to the fact that bones and cartilage, tendons and muscles, tissues and skin don't just happen to go together by accident. Every part of the anatomy has its own important purpose.

"I quickly found that his lessons were invaluable ones. Now I could look at a wild creature pacing about its cage at the zoo and visualize the bone and muscle structure at work. Knowledge of anatomy is vital to the artist.

"And then one day in 1894, Rowley told me that the Fossil Department was looking for an artist to draw a prehistoric pig-like creature, the Elotherium. I agreed to try.

" I studied the Elotherium skeleton carefully, asking myself all kinds of questions. What sort of muscle development would it have had? How would it have moved? How would it have looked? Naturally, I questioned the scientists, too.

"But I was determined that this would be more than an scientifically accurate portrait, still and unconvincing. I hoped to bring the Elotherium to life and show him as he really was in those remote ages when he roamed the earth.

"I sat for hours with my eyes closed, remembering everything I knew about animals. And gradually I began to see in imagination an Elotherium just as alive as your fox terrier.

"The painting still hangs in the museum today. This fascinating creature had started me on my life's work -- the recreation of a living prehistory."

We left the taxidermy department and continued down the hall, into the paleontology domain. "These silhouettes have hung on this wall for close to thirty years. Do you recognize anybody?" Toppy asked.

I bent my head backwards to study them. "No, Toppy. I don't."

He chuckled. "I'm the one in the middle."

I giggled and put my finger against the silhouette."Oh, yes. There's your nose.

"Look at all those pebbles in that dirt, Toppy," I exclaimed, walking over to a table which held a big chunk of earth, three feet square. A man was removing the little objects with infinite care.

"These aren't pebbles, young lady," the man said. "They're bits of bone. When we get finished piecing them together, we'll have a dinosaur." I could hardly believe it. "See that creature standing in the corner?" the scientist asked. "It's a prehistoric bear. When we unearthed him, he didn't look any better than this bunch of bits I'm struggling with right now."

"When will it look like the dinosaur downstairs?" I wondered out loud.

"Oh! Maybe in two or three years," the scientist answered and went back to his puzzle.

A nice woman informed us that the new baby mammoth was kept refrigerated, and she opened the ice box door for us to look in.

"What a scientific treasure! How fortunate for us!" Toppy said.

He was fascinated by the baby trunk, the leg, the foot with its tiny toenails and a small amount of reddish hair. The idea of an animal dying so young depressed him.

It was almost five o'clock when we entered the Henry Fairfield Osborn library. "Remember me telling you about Dr. Osborn, Rhoda? He was one of the greatest paleontologists and a man whom everyone loved and respected. He became president of the museum and was the first person who commissioned me to do a prehistoric mural.

"I'll just be a minute, Rhoda. Sit here on the window seat. I'm going up on the balcony to search for a couple of books. They said I could borrow them over the weekend." He disappeared.

Later the librarian said goodnight and asked me to be sure we locked the door carefully when we left.

Toppy began thinking about Woods Hole in early May. One afternoon, he put through a long distance call to Jim, the gardener there, and instructed him to have the grounds in shape for us by the middle of June. But when our car turned the corner of Quisset Avenue and our house came into view. Toppy exclaimed with annoyance, "The grass is up to my knees. The house will be infested with mosquitoes tonight."

To celebrate the start of another Cape Cod season, Nonnie and Toppy took me on a trip to Sandwich. The drive from Woods Hole to this beautiful town was an exceptionally pretty one. We frequently devoted an entire day just to driving there for tea and back.

A sparkling white church stood in the center of Sandwich Village. Toppy had always been charmed by it, and this time he packed our friend's car full of canvas and paint, planning to spend the day painting this church in the sunshine.

We arrived at Sandwich about one in the afternoon. Toppy stepped out of the automobile and onto the very narrow sidewalk. He stretched his arms, looked at the sky, smiled happily, and began pulling his paraphernalia from the car -- an easel, a canvas, a paint box, a small bottle of turpentine, different sized brushes, a folding chair, and a small table. The next three hours, he spent busily sketching in the lovely details of this New England church. As he worked, Toppy hummed, oblivious to onlookers who came and watched for a few minutes, then continued on their way.

Across the village green, the church bells sounded four o'clock. Toppy gathered everything and placed it back into the car. We were off to tea at the Old Mill, a combination tea room and gift shop.

This was the old grist mill, Dexter's mill, built around 1654 by Thomas Dexter. It was restored in 1961. Sometime before that the tearoom was closed.

The outdoor restaurant was located around the corner of the building. I stopped on the way to watch the water sluice off the churning mill wheel. It splashed with a melodious sound. I stood for quite a while before I realized that Nonnie and Toppy had gone on ahead and were already seated with their friend, our driver. I could just barely see the top of Toppy's straw hat, but I couldn't see Nonnie at all. She was too short.

I joined them at our table which was beside the beautiful pond, filled with water lilies. "Toppy! There's a turtle just like Johnnie. He's almost as big as a boxing glove and isn't he having a glorious swim, paddling about?" I leaned over to get a closer look. Other turtles bobbed to the surface now and then.

We dawdled over our tea. The air was balmy and the scenery charming. Somehow one hated the thought of leaving.

Toppy reached out and stole a couple more sandwiches when Nonnie was looking the other way.

It was nearly seven o'clock and most of the tables were empty. "I guess we'd best go," Toppy said, rising to leave.

I glanced at the pond. A turtle's head bobbed up before me. "Good night little turtle," I whispered. We're back for the summer now. Next week, I'll come feed you cake again."

One day, a baby seagull with badly damaged feathers and a forlorn look in his eyes was brought to Toppy's house. As the fisherman who carried him prepared to leave, I went to take the injured bird into my arms. He tried to peck my hand. I named him Pecky.

Pecky took to his new surroundings immediately, especially the fluffy pillow which Toppy donated from his own bed.

Apparently, the bird had not eaten for several days. He was ravenous and, much to our delight, permitted us to hand feed him right from the start. Besides a voracious appetite for clams, Pecky gobbled worms, and spaghetti with or without sauce, and his greatest passion seemed to be baked beans, a favorite with all true Cape Codders.

"We must give him some variety," Toppy said, "so he doesn't get bored."

We catered to Pecky's gourmet taste until his wings and feathers were completely healed and he could fly with ease.

One morning, we borrowed a boat and rowed our handsome little companion out to a nearby island where hundreds of seagulls lived. He squawked gaily the entire voyage. After we had introduced Pecky to his cousins and his uncles and his aunts, we rowed back to shore with forlorn hearts.

From the dock, we stared out across the water toward the island. The seagulls all looked exactly alike. The island was just a mass of whirling grey and white dots. We knew that somewhere, among those birds, our Pecky was happily squawking.

The air was still, the trees stood motionless, and the water in the bay was as smooth as glass.

"It's the calm before the storm," Toppy said. He brought forth a box of partially-used candles.

"Now, children, place one in each room."

For years, Toppy and Nonnie had told us stories of past storms, of how our house shook in the howling wind, of tidal waves, violent rains. My best friend, Margaret, who lived in a house by Eel pond, had told me that once their house was completely flooded. They moved up into the attic for safety because their furniture floated in gallons of water which almost touched the ceiling of their first floor.

Knight and I knew that storms were dangerous. We were even more convinced that they were terribly exciting. We hoped this hurricane would hit Woods Hole.

"Toppy, please see if we're ready for the hurricane." I yanked my grandfather by the arm.

He obliged patiently and walked from room to room. Carefully, he noted where we had placed each candle. "Yes, that's a good spot," he commented. "Aren't you two children clever!"

We searched the house to find any candle holders we might have missed. We stuffed each with a wax stub. We turned on the radio again. They were still predicting high winds and heavy tides.

Toppy went to the telephone. "I think I'll call your mother in New York to let her know we're ready for anything and that she needn't worry."

"Knight, it looks like it's coming, doesn't it?" I whispered.

"Hello? Lucy? Is that you?" He waited. "Can you hear me? Yes, I can hear you well...I said I can hear your voice clearly. Now you mustn't be concerned if the hurricane hits us. We're fully prepared and will be in little danger. What's that? ... Yes, the children are well. In fact, they're right here beside me. ...Yes, we went swimming today. No! No! It was perfectly safe. The water was as smooth as a duck pond."

Evening came but still no hurricane. Knight and I were packed off to our beds and lay awake waiting for the whine of gale force winds, the sound of heavy rain beating on the roof, the first terrifying flash of lightning.

The following morning, bright sunshine poured into our rooms and awoke us. We peered out our windows. Not a cloud in the sky. Knight left his room and came bounding into mine. "What happened?" we asked each other and ran down to find Toppy.

He was calmly munching a big fresh peach at the breakfast table. Before we had a chance to ask a thing, Toppy spoke first. "I think you can put away the candles children." He took a juicy bite. "I'm happy to report the hurricane has passed us by this time. It's blown out to sea."

Our Woods Hole summer was drawing to an end. It was nearing September and the annual lecture night at the Marine Biological Laboratory would soon take place. It was the last social affair of the season. Toppy was to be the speaker.

Toppy had sorted through his box of glass slides, arranging them in order and making little notes.

That evening, Nonnie laid out on the bed a blue dress that I had never seen her wear before. I thought her beautiful as she descended the lavender stairs, her trailing lace skirt brushing each step. Around her neck were fastened her only real jewels, a lovely, deep purple amethyst necklace which Toppy had designed himself.

"Nonnie looks like every grandmother ought to look," I thought proudly.

Toppy joined us in the living room. He seemed taller and his white hair shone like a silver halo, touching the collar of his black dinner jacket.

Slipping her hand into his, Toppy guided Nonnie out the screen door, onto the dew-dampened lawn, and over to the waiting car.

At the auditorium, we were ushered to our seats in the front row.

Toppy was introduced. He rose and walked to the stage. Everyone applauded warmly.

He began to speak. The audience laughed at his opening jokes. They relaxed and settled back in their chairs. They watched, spellbound, as pre-history passed before their eyes in the color slides of his paintings and murals. The prehistoric creatures loomed large upon the screen. They almost seemed to live and breathe. The lights went up.

"Everyone seemed to enjoy himself, don't you think, Nan?" Toppy asked as we drove home. He placed his arm gently around my grandmother's shoulder.

My first dress affair was over before it had really begun. The minutes had flown. And I had wanted this cherished evening to go on forever. I peered out the window and studied the twinkling stars.

© Rhoda Knight Kalt