How the Sea Became Salt
I loved sleeping at my grandma’s house. When I was young, I would sleep in the front bedroom. It was small with a twin bed pushed into the corner. Shelves held books and knick-knacks above the bed. A Lane cedar chest and a round natural rattan chair were just across the narrow room. The sheets were white, always felt crisp, and smelled freshly washed. A small light on the bottom shelf was available for nighttime reading.
Bedtime Ritual
I would get into my pjs and slip between the sheets. Grandma handed me the Grimm’s Fairytales book and told me to pick out a story. I would look at the dozens of titles in the Table of Contents. But I wasn’t paying attention to the names of the stories. I was looking at the page numbers and trying to figure out the difference between 29 and 37, between 157 and 171, between 294 and 306. I wanted the longest story.
The longer the story, the more time Grandma would read to me.
I’m not sure she ever wondered or knew why I picked the stories I did.
A Tale from Brothers Grimm
The only story from that time I remember her reading is one called “How the Sea Became Salty.” It goes something like this:
Once upon a time, a poor man hit the jackpot by scoring a magical hand mill from a kindly old guy. This gadget isn’t your average kitchen appliance—it churns out anything you wish for, as long as you know the magic words. Our poor fellow uses it to whip up food, gold, and all sorts of goodies, transforming himself into the Elon Musk of fairytale land.
Enter the greedy rich man, who hears about this wonder mill and decides he needs it for himself. He steals it and commands the hand mill to make salt while he’s out at sea. Only problem? He doesn’t know the magic words to make it stop. The hand mill goes berserk, pumping out salt like there’s no tomorrow.
The boat, now overloaded with salt, sinks faster than a lead balloon, and the sea turns into one giant, salty mess. And that is why the ocean tastes like the world’s biggest saltshaker.
Sweet Dreams
After the story, Grandma would kiss my forehead, turn off the light, and whisper, “Sweet dreams.” I’d lie there, feeling safe and warm in that little front bedroom. As I drifted off to sleep, I realized it wasn’t just the stories I loved—it was the time spent with Grandma, her soothing voice, and the way she made the fantastical feel possible. Those nights at Grandma’s house, with crisp sheets and Grimm’s Fairytales, were pure magic.
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