A Grandparent's Gift of Love Page 16

  What do we crave most in this world—attention, love, assurance that we play a significant role in other people’s lives? We need all of these things and many more. Examples of sweet-tempered gestures that reveal the magic of contribution can result in opening new doors in people’s lives, forever transforming their view of the world. These stories vividly demonstrate that all of us can receive love, attention, and feelings of importance simply by contributing to others, and satisfying their hunger for the same emotions.

  A Simple Gesture

  Milk eggs, bread, assorted vegetables, sponge cake, low-fat meat patties, fresh angel-hair pasta, and a box of Twinkies. For years, the supermarket deliveryman brought the same order of groceries to my home each Saturday morning at nine. Lately, however, he had been late, and sometimes it would be three or four in the afternoon before he would knock at my door. My grandson dropped by often as well, always with an armload of goodies, but he’d been traveling for work so I hadn’t seen him for a while.

  The store was only a few blocks away, but at my age it was much easier for me to get the groceries delivered than take a taxi there and back or bother a neighbor each week. But that afternoon I had no choice. The day had come and gone and the deliveryman was nowhere in sight. I called the store and was told that his truck had broken down and my groceries would arrive first thing the following morning. Well, I couldn’t wait until then—my cupboards were bare. My neighbor was gone, so I decided to walk to the store and catch a cab back home.

  I don’t like to go anywhere without looking presentable, so I put on some blush to make my face look perky, slipped on my red coat, and started on my journey. My block is quiet, but I had to cross a main thoroughfare. What made it even worse was the McDonald’s and gas station located at each corner—the intersection was always busy.

  People have become so impatient when they drive, and crossing a busy street always makes me nervous. When I reached the intersection, however, I saw a brawny yet handsome man wearing a blue short-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. He was waiting for the light to turn green. I was hesitant at first, but finally relented and asked, “May I take your arm so we can walk across the street together?”

  He peeked down at me, smiled, and politely said, “I’d be delighted to walk across the street with you.” He extended his arm, I slipped my hand around his big muscle, and when the light turned green, we stepped off the curb and proceeded on our way.

  As we neared the other side of the street a car tried to wedge past us, but I felt secure in this man’s presence. After we stepped safely onto the curb, I looked up at him and said, “Thank you for being such a kind gentleman and helping an old woman like me across the street.”

  “You’re welcome,” he kindly replied. “And thank you for being such a kind lady and helping a blind man like me across the street. Busy intersections like this one always make me nervous.”

  Inspired by BARBARA ELMWOOD

  Graduation Day

  The city was slowly coming to life, but I hadn’t slept a wink. Newspaper deliverymen were heaving bundles of papers onto street corners and in front of soon-to-be-opened convenience stores and coffee shops. The jerky noises from the sanitation trucks rudely cracked the peaceful morning silence but I was lost in thought, my mind muted from the intrusions of the outside world. I drove down the empty road, splashing through puddles, the blinking yellow traffic lights allowing me to continue my journey uninterrupted. I was heading to my office as I watched my life unfold in my memory, from the opening scenes to the current moment. It was something I always did when a pivotal day had finally arrived for me. When I entered, the stillness of the office building allowed my thoughts to continue like an endless dream, and as I fell into the chair behind my desk I drifted even farther into the depths of my own history.

  While I was growing up, my parents had emphasized the importance of education. “It’s a first-class ticket for the journey of life. We’ll get you on board, by paying your tuition, but you’ll have to earn your ride by getting good grades,” they said in a tone of voice I didn’t question.

  “The road to success is paved with books and illuminated by a desktop lamp,” my pop said. Neither of my parents had made it through high school. Putting food on the table took precedence over learning algebra and basic chemistry. They valued education because it was something they’d never acquired and having a well-educated son would enable them to feel successful. I vowed never to let them down.

  My mom labored in a supermarket and my dad at a trucking company. I was industrious, working hard for good grades while participating in sports and other after-school activities, knowing that scholarships were awarded to the most well-rounded candidates. The rejection letters from all of the scholarships I had applied for were polite but the words We regret to inform you singed with pain, as if I was biting down on a piece of tinfoil.

  “Don’t worry,” my parents assured me. “We’ve been saving money from our paychecks for years, stashing it away in a secret college fund for you. We’ve got a small fortune in there now. Plus, Ernie has made some contributions. Our job is getting your tuition paid; your job is getting good grades.”

  “Okay,” I said, disappointed that I hadn’t gotten a scholarship but grateful that I had loving parents and my grandfather Ernie behind me. I knew that Ernie was helping my parents out with my tuition, although no one ever told me directly. Ever since I was little Ernie worked at a printing company. On Saturdays I would visit him, watching as he mixed colors, set the machines, and magically transformed a blank piece of white poster paper into a glossy advertisement with a rainbow of colors. Sometimes when he did menus for a local restaurant he would drop them off personally, and he’d take me along, knowing that the owner would offer both of us a free meal for the great job Ernie did in creating their menus. One day over a milk shake and hamburger I said, “Grandpa, you have a great job. People are happy with the work you do and they give you free food. What more could you want?” I remember him saying, “I have a good job for never finishing high school, but someday you will have a great job because of your college education. You’ll hold a pen in your hand and get ink on the page—not like me,” he said with a smile, holding up his hands with splotches of different-colored ink on his fingers.

  My parents and Ernie worked hard for many years so I could attend college, and when I arrived for the first day with my trunkload of clothes I was thrilled. The colorful dorm rooms, grand campus buildings, and droves of people streaming in every direction or lounging under elm trees reading and taking naps exhilarated me. Some nights I would purposely escape into the library stacks, reading some obscure novel and getting lost in the adventure on the page. The weeks went fast, too fast, and as Thanksgiving neared and midterms loomed, I got a terrible call.

  “Your father had a bad accident at work,” my mom said, her voice numb and flat. “But he’ll be okay,” she added quickly, trying to put a leash on my imagination.

  “What happened, Mom?” My heart raced ahead of my breath, ahead of my thoughts.

  “He fell off the loading dock and broke his back. One of those terrible things you hear about but never think…” She paused slightly. “He has to stay in bed for six months but luckily there was no spinal cord damage so he’ll be up and around soon. I hope.” I suddenly thought about how tight money was in my family and said, “If Pop can’t work, how can we afford the tuition?”

  “Well, the nest egg we had been saving for all those years is still there and I’ll work a few more hours per week at the market. Ernie has some extra money he’ll donate, too. Don’t worry about the money. Just study hard.”

  I visited my parents and Ernie over the holidays. At first my father could barely move, lying rigid as a steel beam. But by the time I left he was getting better. I assured myself they would tell me if money was a problem but took a job in the school library for twelve hours a week anyway, just to help out.

  My college years were fleeting, the good times woven into memory
before I realized the present had become the past. And before I knew it, the day arrived when I marched down the aisle adorned in cap and gown. From my choice seat among the other proud graduates I saw my parents and my grandfather Ernie standing there waving and smiling. My father running his hand along his jacket lapel and pointing at the award draped around my neck, the one I received for finishing at the top of my class. My success was a reflection of their success and I felt like they should be up there with me, decked out in full regalia. As the ceremony concluded and the graduates crossed the area heading toward their families I took my cap and placed it on my father’s head, flipping the tassel over the top. A sign that he had graduated.

  “You see, Pop,” I said, handing him my diploma, “right there in bold letters is your name.”

  Blinking back the tears, he chuckled and said, “Well, look at that. I knew making you my namesake would pay off someday.

  “Son,” he continued, quickly changing the subject, “there is something your mom and I haven’t told you. We saved for your tuition but my injury hurt us financially. Ernie took a second job in a fish market at night to help pay for your education. He believes in you the same way your mom and I do, and he wanted more than anything to stand here at your graduation.”

  My lips quivered and the tears flowed fast as my pop told me about the sacrifices my grandpa had made. I had thought about Ernie often as I sat at the big wooden slab tables in the library, never knowing that he was toiling away, sleeping only a few hours a night for the past couple of years. I pictured him standing before a long table, the thick smell of fish lingering in the air, in his clothes, the scales sticking to his hands and his eyelids heavy from working so many hours. I recalled the days when I was little and visited him at the print shop where he was still working. He’d always said I would graduate from college, and now my success meant that he had achieved success. I shook my head, thinking that he had worked so much harder for this day than I did. While I was studying for exams in a comfortable library, my grandfather worked two jobs and used every spare penny to help keep me in school.

  My father removed the cap from his head, handing it to me with a smile. Strolling over, I saw Ernie taking in the sights, his first graduation ceremony. He’d bought a suit for the occasion, the first one he’d ever owned. He was sixty-three years old. I came up behind him, placed the cap squarely on his head, and embraced him from behind. Whispering in his ear, I said, “Pop told me about the sacrifices you made for me. All I can say is thank you. I love you, and I’ll always strive to make you proud.”

  He turned and with his short thick fingers grabbed both my cheeks, saying, “I am already so proud of you. It will be you who carries my name into the future.” And with that he gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Now, let’s celebrate!”

  Ring! Ring! The sound blared from the phone in my office, jarring me back to reality. “Hello?”

  “What are you doing?” I heard my wife say on the other end. “You’re running late.” My mind blurred, whisking me from the past back to the present. “I’m on my way,” I said, hastily.

  My graduation cap sat on the mantel in my office, a reminder of one of the most important things in life—working hard so your children have the opportunity to achieve their dreams. That cap has traveled with me over the years and today, as I hurried out the door, it accompanied me on another journey.

  Upon arriving, I saw members of my family milling about while others sat in corners chatting quietly. I wanted more than anything to have a private conversation with Ernie and seized the opportunity when no one else was speaking with him.

  “Grandpa, years ago you told me you were proud that I would be the one carrying your name into the future. I hope you’re happy with the job I’ve done so far. I never made a difficult decision without first asking, What would Ernie do? Somehow you always seemed to know the way. Perhaps that’s because I’m younger than you are; walking in your footsteps, I was unable to see your face when you were confused. The sacrifices you made for me set the course for my life and I have kept the winds at my back. I guess that’s the value of an education. All I can say is what I told you the day I graduated: “Thank you for all you’ve done for me, and I love you.””

  With those words I tucked the graduation cap under my grandpa’s hands as he lay in his coffin. Crying, I whispered in his ear, “Grandpa, I’m so proud that you are the one carrying my name through the gates of heaven.”

  Inspired by ANTHONY CANSO

  A Lost Soul

  It was a cold, rainy Saturday in San Francisco, and I was marching briskly through Union Square—an area populated with upscale shops and fine restaurants. The streets were bustling with people bundled up against the rain, which was whipping down in the fierce wind.

  I’d just passed through the Macy’s Men’s Store where expensive colognes were available for testing and, of course, for buying. Fifty dollars a bottle? One hundred dollars? Whatever you desired to make yourself smell a little more tantalizing was available for purchase. Thinking of how fast I could spend my money there, I weaved through the cosmetics counters toward the exit. Struck by the blustery weather, I braced myself against the crisp air and wind gusts as I hiked up the street.

  In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, the elegant jewelry shops and fine clothing stores, I spotted a gray-haired woman with chubby pink cheeks squatting in a puddle of water, her body pressed up against a beveled cement planter. Her filthy hands were resting on her lap, exposed to the harsh weather, and her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had just been crying. Her purple jacket and the shabby scarf that covered her neck and mouth were sullied and threadbare. She had on no socks, just a pair of canvas sneakers soiled with street grime. My first thought as I saw her was, She is somebody’s grandmother. Even in that deplorable situation, I pictured her busily preparing a lavish family feast and wearing an apron she’d gotten from one of her grandchildren with WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA embroidered in bold letters on the front.

  Although I was surprised and saddened to see her there, I pressed on. A moment later I passed a brilliant selection of flowers; their beauty and bouquet riveted my attention. I soaked up their aroma and noticed how most people shuffled by, unaware of their captivating scent. Gazing back down the street, I saw people parading by that old woman sitting in the puddle with the same indifference. I felt fortunate having recognized the splendor of the flowers and the despair in that woman’s eyes. I bought a flower, one that matched the color of her jacket, and placed it in her lap along with the few dollars I had in my pocket. Her reaction was unhurried. She didn’t smile, but I could see a glimmer of thankfulness in her eyes.

  This happened more than four years ago. I have passed that flower vendor and cement planter many times since then and have not seen that woman again. I’ll never know what happened to her, but I’m almost sure she is somebody’s grandmother. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if she was still living on the street somewhere, I hope she finally found her way back home.

  Inspired by a woman in need

  Just a Moment of Your Time

  Thank you for taking a few minutes to explain what’s wrong with my mom, doctor. I know other people are eager to obtain a bit of your knowledge and bedside manner, but I was hoping for just a moment of your time.

  The woman on the other side of this door is not just my mom; she’s my children’s grandma. They knew I would be speaking with you today so they each wrote you a letter and made me promise to read them. Do you mind? This will take just a second, I promise.

  This first one is from my son, Randy. He’s five. “Mr. or Mrs. Doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong with my grandma because I’m only five and am just learning how to tell time but I think my grandma is lucky to have you taking care of her. Since you are a doctor you must be really smart. Doctor, can you please make sure she comes home soon? I miss her a lot. Oh yeah, and one more thing. Can you tell my grandma that I love her very much and that I miss playing cards and games
with her? I think that will make her feel better too. Thank you.”

  I have just one more. This one is from my daughter, Jennifer. She’s eight so she has a better understanding of what’s happening. “Doctor, I know you are probably busy so thanks for listening to my mom read this letter. I know each patient is important to you but I think if you knew just one special thing about my grandma maybe you would look at her differently. She talks to me about who I can become when I grow up. She tells me that I can become a doctor just like you. I’d like that because I would know how to care for her and I could help other people’s grandmas, too. That’s what my grandma does, she fills me up with dreams. So doctor, please help her to come home real soon. I need her around to help me become a doctor someday, just like you.”

  Thanks, doctor. I know my children’s letters were simple but they speak volumes of truth. And to be honest, I feel the same way they do. I know you’re busy, but if you can, give her just a wink once in a while to reassure her everything will be okay. Maybe you can spend an extra moment with her. She’s not lonely, but she is scared, and you can comfort her best now.

  I hear the nurse paging you and tomorrow’s round of golf is probably in the back of your mind, but please keep my mom, my children’s grandma, a top priority for today. It’s not that I don’t think you will, I guess I’m just overly concerned. We’ve been the best of friends since I outgrew my teenage years when I thought she was anything but cool. Often we’d go shopping together and “do lunch” while talking about life and the beauty of having dreams. Just like my daughter mentioned.

  Doctor, my mother was the first one at this hospital when Jennifer was born. That seems like yesterday, but it was eight years ago. Now she’s lying on the other side of this door and my kids need her to be okay. They need more hugs from her, and so do I. If she comes out of everything okay I’m sure she’ll give you a hug, too. And doctor, my mom is a great hugger. You’ll feel good all day after getting one of her hugs.