A Grandparent's Gift of Love Page 13

  One fall day, when gusts of wind sent the crisp leaves scratching along the pavement, I asked a few neighbors if any of their sons wanted to make some extra money shoveling my driveway that coming winter. I didn’t get any takers. I offered ten dollars for each time but realized I wasn’t keeping up with the cost of living for young kids anymore. One boy’s father told me that with the inflated price of candy and video games my offer was just too low. I conceded that I was out of touch.

  I guess word got around, however, and Sally, a new member of the block, knocked on my door. She was recommending her ten-year-old son for the job. I told her I’d like to meet the boy and that I was sure we could work something out. The next morning I was introduced to a stringy kid named Billy. He was awkward and shy, but a lot of kids are at that age. He looked like ten going on eight. I wasn’t sure if he was up to the job, but his mom said, “He’s a little guy, but he’s a tiger. I know he can handle it.” I said okay and welcomed Billy aboard as my newest and only employee. Together, I showed Billy and his mom where I kept the tools of his new trade.

  It wasn’t long before the first snowfall blanketed the neighborhood. It began Friday evening, and early Saturday morning Billy arrived ready to tackle the driveway. I’d left the car out the night before so the job wasn’t too intimidating. From my upstairs window, I watched him plunge the plastic red shovel into the deep pile of snow and heave a load over his right shoulder and into a growing mound of white powder. He looked small, lost in his coat, but he was strong for his size and intent on doing a first-rate job. After about forty-five minutes, I called to see if he would like to warm up with a hot chocolate. His hat was slipping down over his eyes so he raised his head up to look at me before nodding enthusiastically, the hat slipping farther down onto his face. Billy shed his puffy winter jacket, thick blue knit hat, gloves, and snow-covered red boots in the garage before plunking into a chair at the kitchen table. He wiped his runny nose with his sleeve before I could offer him a tissue. His ears were crimson and his hands shivered from the cold. Cupping the steaming mug in his palms, he sat there quietly, unsure of what to say. So I began talking, not knowing at the time that it would be the first of many conversations Billy and I would share.

  Billy was timid at first but he soon opened up. He was different from the other boys his age, not saying much about school or friends. I didn’t think he had any friends. As we sat chatting, thick snowflakes started falling again, so I told him not to worry about the driveway. I’d pay him for that day, and he could come back once the snow had stopped.

  The winters are long and cold in Maine, and Mother Nature provided Billy with a full day’s work most weekends—and often after school, as well. Over the next few months we went through a few family-size boxes of hot chocolate together, and I got to know this curious little boy who seemed to have a lot on his mind.

  Sometimes he would come by even when my driveway didn’t need to be shoveled. That made me feel good. My grandkids lived out west so Billy’s company was always welcome. One day he appeared at my door with a brown shoe box and a piece of paper bound snugly under a thick rubber band. He said, “Mr. Hanson, do you have a few minutes? I’ve got something to ask you.

  He seemed to mean business, so I suggested we step into my office. I offered him the big leather chair and smiled as his feet dangled a few inches above the floor. I slipped open an old metal folding chair and set it across from him. Leaning forward with my hands clasped in front of me, I said, “What’s on your mind, Billy?”

  “Mr. Hanson,” he uttered nervously, “I love my mom, and I know she is doing her best for me, but I need something else. You see, I never got to know my grandpa, and my dad, he left my mom and me a long time ago. Since I’ll be a teenager soon I feel like it’s important to have a father figure in my life. After hearing how much you miss your grandchildren, I had an idea.” Billy paused for a moment, his feet flopping nervously, his fingers tugging at the rubber band around the shoe box before he took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eyes. “I would like to hire you as my grandfather. I saved all the money you paid me for shoveling your driveway, and now I’d like to hire you. What do you think, Mr. Hanson? Can I pay you to be my grandfather?”

  My heart thumped in my chest, and like a cloudburst, tears rushed down my cheeks. It was the most wonderful question and biggest compliment I had ever received. With my eyes closed I gave Billy an oversize hug that felt like it lasted forever. When we released he took that as a yes, and with his face beaming, he handed me the shoe box. I slipped out the paper he had folded neatly and tucked under the rubber band. At the top of the page, in a ten-year-old’s handwriting, was the word CONTRACT.

  “This contract states that Billy Flannigan will become the “Special Grandson” of Mr. Hanson and Mr. Hanson will be the “Special Grandfather” of me, Billy Flannigan.” Following was a list of his references. His mother, Sally, Ms. Vance, his teacher, and Ricky, his new friend at school, had all signed the paper. They vouched for Billy, stating that he was considerate, fun, appreciative, and would make a wonderful grandson. I grabbed a pen from my desk and signed my name, Henry Hanson, in the spot he had for me, under SPECIAL GRANDFATHER. I handed him the pen and he signed the spot where it said SPECIAL GRANDSON. We sealed our agreement with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “When would you like to start your new position?” Billy asked.

  Grinning, I said, “My schedule is pretty clear, so I’d like to get started right away. How about we go out for burgers, fries, and some miniature golf? Does that sound good to you, grandson?”

  “That sounds great, Grandpa,” he said with a wide-eyed smile. And then he asked curiously, “What are you going to do with the money you just made?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’ve got one idea that I think will bring great returns someday,” I said as we headed out the door, bound for my favorite burger joint.

  With the permission of Billy’s mother, I spent the next few years investing what he gave me and added some of my own money as well. Today that small amount has blossomed into enough to pay for his college tuition.

  Billy is in high school now and has a job paying him more than I ever could for shoveling my driveway. He’s saving for college, unaware that the investment he made the day he hired me has paid huge dividends, for both of us. I’m looking forward to his graduation day, when I can finally give him his present. And now, when those blustery autumn winds send the brittle leaves scratching along the pavement, I know it’s time to ask around, see if I can hire an ambitious young boy from the neighborhood to shovel my driveway. I’ve raised my offer to twelve dollars now; a small price to pay to get my driveway shoveled, enjoy fun conversation with a young spirit, and perhaps make even a slight impact on his life. There was a time when I looked toward winter and saw only the frustration it would cause me. Today when the snow falls I know it won’t be long before I hear a plastic shovel scraping along my driveway. That’s when I heat up the water for hot chocolate and the oven for cookies and see what an old-timer like me and a fresh-faced young boy might have in common.

  Inspired by HENRY HANSON

  Time for a Bubble Bath

  So there I was, seated at the kitchen table enjoying a hot cup of freshly ground French roast coffee, when my three-year-old grandson, Benjamin, stood in the center of the kitchen and proceeded to take off all his clothes.

  Laughing, I asked, “Benjamin, what are you doing?”

  “Going to take a bath,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious already.

  “How come you didn’t get undressed upstairs?” I asked, chuckling at him standing there buck naked next to a little pile of dirty clothes.

  “Because Mommy washes the clothes down here,” he said, pointing to the laundry room.

  I admired the little guy’s logic. I never did like carrying my bundle of dirty clothes down to the washing machine after I took a shower, but getting undressed in the kitchen wasn’t an option for a fifty-two-year-old man. I envie
d him, naked in the middle of the kitchen. The dog came over, sniffed his feet, and went under the table.

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  “I’m waiting for Mommy. She has to turn on the water.”

  “I can turn the water on for you.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa, but Mommy knows how to do it just right.”

  “Okay. Where is Mommy?”

  “I don’t know, but she’ll be here soon.”

  As if that were her cue, my daughter, Katie, emerged from the family room. She laughed when she saw me, a fully dressed grown man having a somewhat intelligent conversation with a naked three-year-old.

  “We’re just talking politics,” I said. “Benjamin is obviously a liberal.”

  She laughed and, while gazing down at her only son and tousling his hair, asked, “Benjamin, are you ready for your bath?”

  “Yes, Mommy. I’ve been waiting for you. ’Bye, Grandpa.”

  “See you later, little guy.” As they turned to walk away, I thought to myself, Ah, the beauty of childhood. There he goes, hand-in-hand with his mother, about to enjoy a warm bubble bath. I felt a little envious. Some of the best things about childhood we never outgrow. A few weeks later, however, after a two-mile Saturday-morning run, I came home to an empty house. My wife was shopping, and I remembered Benjamin getting undressed in the kitchen. Since I didn’t feel like toting my sweaty workout clothes downstairs after my shower I peeled them off right there, in the center of the kitchen. I was standing naked and drinking a glass of water when the front door sprang open and my wife walked in carrying a bag of groceries.

  “What in the world are you doing!” she shrieked.

  I looked at her, shrugged my shoulders, gazed down at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, grinned, and said, “Going to take a bath. Care to join me?” The edges of her mouth crept up into a smile.

  Two hours later I picked up my clothes and threw them in the wash while my wife put the groceries away, both of us grateful that we hadn’t outgrown our childlike instincts.

  Inspired by BEN MARTIN

  A Lot in Common

  One day the kindergarten class of Cedar Creek elementary school was taking a trip to a nearby nursing home. They were scheduled to perform a show for the residents and afterward join them for lunch. The show went off without a hitch and they soon sat down for hot dogs and sodas—a treat for everyone.

  One curious little boy perched himself up on a chair next to one of the residents and asked, “So what do you do for fun around here?”

  The man responded, “There really aren’t too many fun things to do here.”

  “No toys?” asked the boy.

  “No toys,” replied the man.

  “Can you watch TV?”

  “It’s too much trouble,” the man said, his voice steeped in frustration. “There’s only one TV and people argue about what to watch.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve got the same problem with my two brothers. But I guess you can stay up as late as you want, that’s pretty good.”

  “Nope. It’s lights out by ten o’clock,” said the man, shaking his head.

  “That’s a bummer.”

  “Tell me about it,” the man replied, thankful that he’d found someone who understood his frustration.

  “At least you can eat whatever you want for dinner. I have to eat what my mom makes.”

  “I have to eat what the cook makes in the kitchen,” said the man, sticking out his tongue, a sign that he didn’t like the food. “And sometimes I even get yelled at for spilling milk!”

  “You too?” replied the boy in amazement.

  “Sure. The staff here makes me clean my room, too!”

  “My mom makes me clean mine. Wow! I’ve only had to deal with these rules for a few years and sometimes they make me mad. How old are you?”

  “Eighty-four.”

  “No wonder a lot of old people are cranky. I’d be mad too if someone had been yelling at me for eighty-four years.”

  Inspired by ROSALIE LAWTON

  The Dinner Table

  Once there was a frail old woman whose husband passed away and left her all alone, so she went to live with her son, his wife, and their little daughter. Each day the old woman’s sight dimmed and her hearing faded just a little bit more, and sometimes at dinner her hands trembled so much that the peas rolled off her spoon and the soup splashed from her cup. Her son and his wife grew annoyed at how she spilled her meals all over the table. One day, after she knocked over a glass of milk, they reached the breaking point and decided that enough was enough.

  So she would no longer disturb them during dinner, they set up a tiny table for her in the corner next to the storage closet and made the old woman eat her meals there. She sat all alone, her hands trembling as she carried the food from her plate to her mouth. With teary eyes she would look across the room at the others, unable to hear what they were saying. Sometimes they spoke to her while they ate, but usually it was to scold her for dropping some food onto the floor.

  One evening, just before dinner, the little girl was busy playing on the floor with her building blocks and her father asked what she was making. “I’m building a little table for you and Mommy,” she smiled, “so you can eat by yourselves in the corner someday when I get big.”

  Her parents sat staring at her for a moment before they both burst into tears. That night, they led the woman back to her place at the big table. And from that day forward she sat with the rest of the family and no one ever yelled at her if she spilled something every once in a while.

  A tale shared by MARJORIE BANCROFT

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HEALING A BROKEN HEART

  Mending the relationships we once held dear and understanding how others deal with the pain of a shattered spirit

  The quality of our life is rooted in the quality of our relationships. We won’t always agree with our family and friends, but nourishing the relationships we have is vital to our happiness and well-being. Also, we must learn to listen when others are asking for our support. Too often we are absorbed with our own concerns and miss seeing that someone close to us is grieving or needs to be rescued. By becoming more aware of others’ feelings, we can fortify our relationships and enhance the quality of our own lives.

  A Chance Encounter

  The date was January third. Three years ago this day my son lost his life in a catastrophic car accident. The road was icy; his car careened off a steep embankment and plummeted thirty feet to the ground. He had moved away almost twenty years earlier, feeling that our relationship was beyond repair. I didn’t try to stop him. I was notified of his death by mail, a month after the accident happened.

  It felt strange. It was the anniversary of a tragic loss, and I had no one with whom to share my sorrow. I didn’t even know anyone who knew my son, so I found myself alone, eating breakfast at a little restaurant not far from my home. When he was young, my son and I always enjoyed getting breakfast together. But now I sat in isolation at the counter, my head bowed down in my hands and my eyes staring blindly into my coffee cup. Thoughts of what I would change, if I only could, infused my mind.

  As I sat there lost in my own world, a young man propped himself up on the stool next to me. He ordered waffles, two eggs scrambled, and coffee. I gazed at him curiously. That was the same thing my son used to order.

  “Are you from out of town, honey?” asked Bernadette, the waitress. She knew all the regulars and was always curious about the stories of strangers.

  “Sure am,” he replied. “I’m doing some traveling during the school vacation. I decided to treat myself to breakfast because today is my dad’s anniversary, and we always had breakfast together.”

  Again I gazed at him curiously. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I said. “But did your dad pass away on this date?”

  “Yes, he did,” said the young man, taking a sip from the glass of water Bernadette had just poured for him.

  “If I
’m intruding let me know, but how did your father die?”

  “Car accident. Three years ago,” he uttered, shaking his head as if to say, Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

  “My son died in a car accident, too,” I replied. “Three years ago today. We always enjoyed breakfast together.”

  “Well, to your son and my dad,” said the young man as he raised his coffee mug.

  Twenty minutes and some polite conversation later, Bernadette placed the check on the counter and I offered to pay for the young man’s breakfast. “You remind me a lot of my son,” I expressed.

  “I appreciate the compliment but prefer to pay my own way,” he replied. He paid the check, thanked Bernadette for the pleasant service, and shook my hand. “Sorry about your son,” he mumbled, and headed for the door.

  As I watched him walk away an icy chill rippled through my veins. He had my son’s walk—a confident swagger. He wore cowboy boots and faded jeans, just like my son. And a denim jacket draped listlessly over his right shoulder. As he swung the door open and the rusty old bell fastened to the hinge resonated a dull clank, I called out, “Was your father’s name John?”

  He froze in the doorway before slowly rotating until he faced me. His face was bleached and he gazed at me with prying eyes and furrowed brow. He said, “Is your name John?”

  And at that moment we both knew, his father, my son, were one and the same. This young man who had enjoyed breakfasts with his dad was my grandson. And out of nowhere, the chance to make a change appeared before me.