Grandma died. This was a number of years ago, and she’d achieved one hundred of them herself, so I’m not searching for sympathy. I was not Grandma’s favorite.
I was my already-dead Grandpa’s favorite. He spoke nonsense, I laughed; that was the foundation of it. But Grandma didn’t deal that way. Her love was a cliff face, undeniably large but unapproachable and unchanging. Anyway, Katherine was her favorite.
When Grandma died her estate was divided between the four children and ten grandchildren. Her last-will-and-testament was only about the money, and the things that could be turned into money, but there was a lifetime’s accrual of stuff – the accurate word for it – that had to be dealt with. And among this stuff was a thing that had been left to me: an elephant’s foot.
The actual foot of an actual elephant.
It wasn’t left officially. Never one to employ euphemism, Grandma would tell me: “You can have that when I die.” This made it more binding than anything witnessed by a lawyer. Grandma’s own wish! And, understandably, none of my cousins argued.
So: an elephant’s foot. How could any child resist the complete fascination? It was short and squat, about my height from the first time I remember it, grey and wrinkled of course. It was stitched together at the back, very poorly and loosely, as if the elephant had unlaced it, slipped it off, and put on a larger, more comfortable one. At the front were the big elephant toenails you always see. On top was a wooden cover. Inside was Grandma’s knitting.
There’s an angry elephant wandering around the Congo with only three feet, my Grandpa would tell me, speaking nonsense.
I’d never seen a complete elephant, still haven’t outside a zoo. So here was this foot, one part of a larger something that only appeared in my storybooks. And I could touch it! Have you ever touched an elephant’s foot? It feels like you imagine. Then years began passing and shading in the steps that led to the actual foot of an actual elephant standing in the corner of my Grandma’s house in Wales. None of those steps was good, for humans or elephants.
The real origin, though I never remember hearing it directly, was that it was a gift when missionary friends returned from some years in Africa. “Africa” was amorphous and exotic in the minds of all British people then. Still, mostly. It was full of dangerous tribes and wild animals that needed no protection, because they were dangerous and wild. I presume these missionaries did not hunt the beast themselves, but maybe they did. Maybe they returned with a whole elephant, distributing it among their nearest and dearest.
With Grandma’s death, this elephant’s foot belonged to me. I collected it from the cold and unlit house, and returned the keys to my aunt on her farm down the road.
I was living in the United States now. How does one go about carrying an elephant’s foot from Wales to the USA? It wasn’t a question I wanted to ask. Instead I asked my brother-in-law if I could keep it in his attic. I didn’t give him the opportunity to say no.
Then, very recently, the President of the USA, in a week between avoiding porn stars and meeting dictators, quietly and with no publicity decided to allow big game trophy imports from overseas. His son likes hunting, you see.
A path was suddenly opened for my elephant’s foot, my connection to my Grandma, her love and my childhood! My brother-in-law wanted his storage space back too; no one likes having someone else’s elephant’s foot on their hands.
This is where I am now, and no decision has been taken.
I want to suggest that it is all a metaphor, for original sin or something, but for me a metaphor needs to be a whole lot more metaphorical than the actual foot of an actual elephant, home decor from an era of barbaric plunder so bad that we ignore it. See? Now it’s original sin and colonialism. What would you do if your grandparents gave you an elephant’s foot? Only bring it out when they visit? Store your knitting in it?
Justice has progressed to punishing the crimes of yesteryear by today’s standards, as it always does. All well and good, but that’s never come with personal repercussions, with material remains, like a civil war statue in your yard. Did I ask for this elephant’s foot? Of course I did, with the fervor and fascination of a child. Did my grandparents? No, but in post-World War Two Britain it was hard to turn away an elephant’s foot. Am I asking for it now? Of course not, but it’s too late, like every dying wish.
I suppose I might trace it back to its country of origin and return it, which would end in failure but be ointment for my guilt: I tried. Perhaps give it to the local museum, which seems happy displaying stuffed rhinos, giraffes, and other Victoriana. Is there a tax deduction for gifted elephant’s feet?
Maybe I should bury it, employ some spiritual-ish person to commend the elephant’s soul. My Grandma could meet it in heaven and answer some of its questions. Or cremation, relinquish to ash my problems and this vestige of my grandmother, and convince myself that it’s the memories of her that are most special. “You can have that when I die”.
Why not own it? There it is, daring you to comment when you visit. Yes, that’s my elephant’s foot. Problem? I keep my knitting in it. Then explain everything, and nervously check it can’t be seen from the street. Who drives around looking for elephant’s foot owners to persecute? Someone, I’m sure.
But really, doesn’t every family possess their own elephant’s foot? Figuratively, I mean. Maybe some do have skeletons in their closets. Literally, I mean. Probably not, but I could convince myself that other people are less honest than me, and just don’t talk about such things.
If I had to guess, I’d say the foot will be left in my brother-in-law’s attic, taking up space in his conscience, waiting for his daughter to deal with when I pass away and (officially, this time) leave it to her. A problem evaded by blaming a generation before me and gifting it to one after.
No. Admission of responsibility is the first step, a step that I can take for an elephant that can’t. I just have no idea what the next step is. Until then, I remain the sole owner of an elephant’s foot.
The actual foot of an actual elephant.
David Davies is the member of a large Welsh family with plenty of legends, including this one about a grisly heirloom left by Grandma. What to do with a grisly heirloom but write about it?