It’s amazing how much the world has changed.
When I was a child, every now and then I would come across an item stamped with the words “Made in Taiwan.” Back then, those words meant very little to me in any practical sense. I had no idea where Taiwan was, how far away it might be, or what kind of place it was. That simple little label, though, was enough to set my imagination loose in the most wonderful way.
In my young mind, Taiwan became a far-off land filled with mystery and adventure.
Grandma Cooper had two black porcelain panthers resting on her coffee table in the living room. One was slightly larger than the other, and around their necks ran a delicate gold chain that linked them together. I was fascinated by those panthers. I would sit on the carpet and stare at them for what felt like hours, admiring the way the light from the window would catch their glossy black finish and dance across their backs.
They looked alive to me.
One afternoon, curiosity got the better of me, and I carefully lifted one to take a closer look. When I turned it over, there on the underside of its paw was a small tag.
Made in Taiwan.
Well, that was all it took.
Suddenly, those panthers were no longer porcelain figures sitting quietly on Grandma’s coffee table. In my mind, they were moving silently through a thick jungle. I could almost hear the rustling leaves and distant calls of wild birds. I pictured vines hanging from tall trees, shafts of sunlight breaking through the canopy, and somewhere high above, Tarzan swinging from branch to branch.
And of course, in my childhood opinion, Johnny Weissmuller was the very best Tarzan. Some things simply felt like facts when you were young.
After a while, a question began to grow in my mind.
Why panthers?
It seemed such an unusual thing for Grandma Cooper to have sitting right there in the middle of her living room. Flowers, perhaps. Family photos, certainly. But panthers?
One day, I finally asked.
“Grandma, why do you have a pair of panthers on your coffee table?”
She looked at me with that smile only Grandma Cooper could give—a smile that always seemed to carry a secret—and there was that familiar twinkle in her eye.
“You know the gorilla movie you kids like to watch every Thanksgiving?” she asked.
I nodded quickly. “Yes.”
She leaned back in her chair and began in that calm, storytelling voice of hers.
“Well, in the jungle where that was filmed, there were panthers. Beautiful creatures, really. They walked with stealth and exuded confidence as they moved about.”
Well now.
My young mind nearly burst wide open.
Holy Toledo.
Grandma Cooper in the jungle? With panthers? And a gorilla?
Surely not.
But what if?
I could hardly contain myself.
“Grandma,” I asked, leaning in closer, “were you there? I mean, there with the panthers and the gorilla?”
She turned toward me, that smile never leaving her face.
“Come on,” she said, rising from her chair. “We have work to do. Maybe I will tell you a bit more later.”
And just like that, off we went.
I spent the entire afternoon helping her in the garden, but I will tell you honestly, my hands may have been pulling weeds, yet my mind was somewhere deep in the jungle.
I could see Grandma Cooper standing fearless among wild animals.
Panthers slipping through tall grass.
A gorilla beating its chest in the distance.
Snakes coiled on tree limbs.
Elephants moving through the mist.
Lions and tigers hidden in the shadows.
My grandmother, of all people, seemed to belong in every one of those scenes.
That evening, we ate dinner quietly.
I was waiting.
Patiently on the outside.
Impatiently on the inside.
Grandma had said later, and with Grandma Cooper, later could mean after supper, tomorrow morning, or perhaps sometime next year. You learned quickly not to press her. If she wanted to tell the story, she would tell it in her own time.
The next morning at breakfast, I tried once more.
“Grandma, can I hear a bit more about the panthers?”
Without missing a beat, she simply smiled and said, “Finish up there. We have some work to get done before lunch.”
Well.
That told me everything I needed to know.
The story never came.
Or perhaps it did.
Looking back now, I think Grandma Cooper knew exactly what she was doing.
She didn’t hand me the whole story because she understood something precious: sometimes imagination is better than the answer.
She gave me just enough to let my mind wander.
And wander it did.
To this day, whenever I think of those black porcelain panthers linked by that little gold chain, I don’t just see figurines on a coffee table.
I see adventure.
I see wonder.
I see a grandmother who knew how to turn an ordinary afternoon into a memory that would last a lifetime.
And I still wonder…
Do you think Grandma Cooper was really there?
Final Thoughts
Some of our sweetest childhood memories are built not from what we were told, but from what we were allowed to imagine. Grandma Cooper had a gift for that. She could take something as simple as a pair of porcelain panthers and turn it into a story that still lingers in the heart decades later.
Maybe that was her magic all along.
Not answering every question, but leaving just enough mystery for us to carry the story forward ourselves.
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