Meal completed and my energy waning, I wished she would choose something so we could go home. “Wouldn’t you like this lovely doll?” Thoughtfully, she considered, her eyes downcast. Then, “. . . A buckle right here!”
The Shoe Box was the last store in the mall with possibility. I had once thought little of paying forty-five dollars for a pair of Buster Brown shoes in this very same store. I hoped yet feared we’d find the red slippers here.
We did.
The shiny red Mary Janes fit perfectly and April marched up and down, up and down, before the mirrors. I dreaded asking the price. The clerk looked at the end of the box. “Just $34.98.”
I’ve been told my face always betrays my emotions. April’s eyes met mine as the disappointment rose, with tears not far behind. “But wait,” said the clerk quickly. “Let me check with my manager.”
“I want to wear them home!” April bent down and touched the buckle, satisfied.
Silently, I prayed.
After an agonizing wait, the clerk returned. “Since these are the last pair, how about half price?”
My tired feet and my heart were swollen with weary joy and gratitude to a benevolent God, and a compassionate clerk and manager. April skippity-hopped the red shoes all the way to the exit, where rain came down in torrents.
With britches rolled well above my tennis shoes, I drew up the straps on my little backpack as far as they would go, then strapped it on April’s back. Next, I snapped and tied the rain-cape and hood securely about her neck and hoisted her to my shoulders. We proceeded like a hunkering giant into the downpour, waving to the missionary still ringing, ringing his bell, wishing all a Merry Christmas. With my grandchild squealing above me, I held tightly to her small knees. With shiny red slippers bouncing against my grateful chest, I knew.
Yes, I could do this.
I would not be alone.
Bettye Martin-McRae
Monday Night Tea
To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.
Ecclesiastes 3:1
“Mom!” my exasperated eight-year-old pouted glumly. “That’s your ‘no’ look. All the other kids go see the Cookie Lady every day. Can’t I go, please?”
This same request had punctuated every afternoon since shortly after we’d moved to this new area of town. A lady who gave away cookies to small children made me wonder if we had made the right move. But surely, I reasoned silently, all of these children’s parents must know this person if they allow daily visits. Sighing reluctantly, I looked at the five eager faces outside our screen door. I took my daughter’s hand, bowing playfully. “Okay, Princess. I am your royal subject. Lead me to the Cookie Lady.”
Giggling in delight, the children pulled and led me, like a Pied Piper in reverse, I thought, hopping and skipping down the street past other homes that were similar in size and status to ours. The children teased to see if I could identify their homes as we walked on, laughing and creating silly rhymes to help me remember whose home was whose, and making up names when I didn’t know. Our entourage must have been quite the sight. “Blue, blues, that house is Sue’s” and “Christmas red without the green, that house belongs to Imogene” were completed with groans and more laughter.
Looking up for the next home, I realized we were heading around the bend and stopped in my tracks, suddenly shy. Our family had walked the neighborhood and noticed the half-dozen imposing, column-fronted homes on the bend. We had not yet seen or met any of their owners, and my neighbors and I were in awe of the social and financial power these homes represented. It was almost as if the bend contained an imaginary boundary.
“Come on,” the children urged, pulling me toward the most elegant home.
As they raced past me to the door, I was awed that the children had no concern of status as they listened to the beautiful multitoned chimes harmonize a welcome while I weakly compared it to the ding-dong of our doorbell.
I was completely disarmed, however, by the tall, elegant older woman who answered the door. Loving. The description came to me unbidden and remained as she gave us each an obviously homemade sugar cookie centered with a pecan half.
Business done, the little ones lined up on her porch and munched happily, allowing Magdalene Veenstra to introduce herself and smilingly guess whose mom I was.
Imagined social barriers melted with her charming story of once offering “store bought” cookies, which were instantly rejected by several children who announced they would return “when you feel better and make Cookie Lady cookies again.” Five minutes later I left, bemused and wondering over a warm invitation to join her for a cup of tea the following Monday.
A junior-high home-economics class was my only preparation of protocol for that first visit, and I wore a skirt to honor her generation and her genteel nature. I was grateful for the sense of smell when she opened the door; my aproned hostess did not need to tell me she had been baking. I followed her to the kitchen with an anticipation that never dimmed over the following fifteen years of Monday night teas.
Leading me past her blue delft collection and through a luxurious formal dining room to the kitchen, she directed me to a seat at a porcelain-topped table from another era. From there I watched “the ritual,” as I came to think of her tea preparations, while drooling (inwardly only, I hoped) over the freshly baked delicacies that she’d placed on our English rose china plates.
A small but pleased surprise filled me as she sat and bowed her head in prayer. Realizing that this longed-for grandmother figure also shared my faith instantly drew our hearts closer.
From that Monday on, recipes filled our conversations— recipes for her famous pecan cookies and the almond-filled tarts known to other generations as bridesmaid tarts—then other “recipes,” for living, for walking the faith, for loving our families and eventually even for dying. Each cup of tea opened a chapter of a living history book with tales of war, the Depression, numerous presidents, life on several continents and the inventions of radio, airplanes, automobiles and television. But history came only after our time of prayer for family, including present and future generations.
Being accepted taught me to accept others; her childlike faith (“I asked God to keep me safe while I slept—should I now insult him and stay awake worrying?”) taught me to keep things simple. A favorite adage of hers, “Use it or lose it,” gave me inspiration to utilize my talents and energy. It was this very adage that gave me a final lesson.
Grandma V, as I’d come to call her, had asked me to read. Her hearing and vision were now limited, so I was sitting on a cushioned footstool at her feet, but the book lay closed in my lap. She had recently ceased most cooking and had shocked the motor vehicle department by voluntarily giving up her license with a simple, “It’s time.” I was distressed by her inactivity, so I sat gently chiding her to “use it or lose it” when she caught me by surprise. She leaned forward until we were practically nose-to-nose and effectively stopped my thoughtless chatter. I gave her my full attention as she looked me straight in the eye, paused for effect and said, “You ever been ninety-three?”
We laughed the rest of the night over her remark and my shocked reaction. As usual, though, I was on the way home when I realized the lesson amid the humor. I cannot lead where I have not gone. Ecclesiastes’ “a time for everything” formed the refrain to memories of ageless wisdom from the kids and the Cookie Lady.
Surely there is a time to walk before and a time to walk behind, but the time is always right to walk beside.
Delores Christian Liesner
4
ADVENTURES
WITH
If I had known grandchildren were going to be so much fun, I would have had them first.
Erma Bombeck
Outing with Gram
If nothing is going well, call your grandmother.
Italian Proverb
The sight of our fourteen-year-old grandson Dave being violently sick from his first round of chemotherapy is one I w
ill never forget. That single snapshot in time hovered like a dark cloud, even though his mom later found a remedy to control the nasty side effects. It represented the reality of an unexpected diagnosis—cancer in his right leg. He was home now between chemos, and today was my day with Dave.
A husky about-to-be freshman, Dave’s precancer interests had focused entirely on sports and activity. How, I wondered, would I find something to do on this cool fall day with a young man on crutches, weakened and tired but still game for his turn to spend a day with Grandma? All past outings and ideas were scratched due to his limited strength. We would have to find something to do for an hour or two before returning home for medication. I was baffled.
Even when I saw Dave’s eager glance as his mom knelt to tie the shoe on his splint-protected leg, I had no clue what we would do. I prayed frantically for an idea, wondering, What do teenage boys like Dave like to do? All eight grandkids had enjoyed my past spontaneity, but this time I felt hollow.
Then, just as Dave stood and asked, “What are we going to do today, Gram?” it came. Cars! Boys like cars!
“It’s a surprise, Dave,” I smiled, now calm. “I think you will enjoy this.”
We drove to Highway 20, which is lined with car dealers. Pausing expectantly before we turned onto the street, he eyed me. “So, Dave, see any cars you want to test drive?” Widened eyes and a happy smirk were my answer. He quickly chose a Cadillac, and we swung into their lot and parked.
A number of steps led to the office, so Dave waited while I went inside. My nephew Kenny calls me “General D” when I get this determined, and I chuckled as I climbed the steps, wishing I’d called ahead. Fortunately our arrival was at a quiet moment, and the salesman who greeted me was also a grandparent. A brief explanation that I was in no position to actually purchase a car but was requesting a ride for my grandson produced a hearty welcome.
“No problem,” said the kindly salesman, who came out and greeted Dave eagerly. “I think I have an idea which car you’d be interested in,” he said, pointing out a blue sporty model. A responsive grin, followed by the first of many sighs of “Sweet!” indicated full agreement.
Our butter-smooth ride through town was highlighted when Dave suggested we go by the house and show the family what we had “found.” Everyone oohed and ahhed over the features, and his siblings hinted recklessly for their next outing. After returning the Cadillac and giving profuse thanks, we returned home for Dave’s medication. His eighteen-year-old brother Mike greeted him with, “After that, what will you do this afternoon—test drive a Hummer?”
“Yeah,” Dave laughed, adding, “in my dreams.”
I tore out of their house before I heard any more. The day was half over. Could it be done? I raced to my house and the Internet, punching in “Hummer.” A yelp of joy brought my husband running. There was a dealership only forty minutes away! I called with trepidation and explained this time that I not only was not in the market to buy the vehicle, I couldn’t even test-drive it.
“Come on in!” laughed the enthusiastic manager.
Dave was ready to go a few minutes later, eagerly wondering where we were going next. “A surprise in a half hour,” was all I could trust myself to say, and we chatted about the Cadillac ride and other cars he thought were “sweet.”
The final exit was on a hill and the Hummer showroom was visible at the bottom. “You didn’t!” he said, gazing at me a moment and then back at the yellow and black signage. “I don’t believe it.”
In awe, we walked up the ramp to the futuristic building. Two men stood dwarfed behind massive glass doors, which apparently allowed the gigantic vehicles to be driven out. The manager and a salesman, Mike, greeted us and gave Dave the royal treatment, including a tour, history of the Hummer and a look inside both standard and luxury models before going outside for a ride.
Our guess that the erect, crew-cut salesman had been a serviceman was confirmed as he guided us to the silver Hummer he’d purchased after military use. Gallantly hoisting Grandma in the back, they circled the Hummer admiringly and then climbed in to inspect and discuss every minutia, from the “rotating gun” atop the vehicle to every dial and engine part. I am usually bored with such guy stuff, but time flew as I watched Dave’s grin broaden time and again. When Mike asked, “Are you ready for a ride?” Dave turned, and I knew the look he flashed me would hold a lifetime of memories.
Oh, what a ride! Several times Mike or Dave glanced back and inquired if Grandma was doing okay. Gripping the seat stiffly, I did not enjoy riding up—or down—what felt like ninety-degree hills. But I was there for Dave and squeaked out, “Fine,” to their chuckles, as Mike drove over and through every imaginable obstacle and finished with a road test on the freeway!
Later, buckling up to head home, I marveled at the answer to my prayer. An exhausted Dave placed his souvenirs and crutches in the back and tilted his seat for a rest. The quiet ride home was broken a few minutes later with a sleepy chuckle and music to a grandmother’s ears. “You’ll never be able to top this, Gram. . . . It was a Hummer of a day!”
Delores Christian Liesner
Grandma Days
There is nothing more properly the language of the heart than a wish.
Robert South
I was barely awake when the phone rang at 7:20 A.M.
“Hello?” I mumbled groggily, trying to clear the fog from my sleepy brain.
A little voice whispered, “Hi, Grandma!”
Suddenly I was wide awake. “Hi, Logan.” I was surprised and delighted with the wake-up call because I knew his parents cautioned him not to call me too early in the morning. “How are you today?”
“Grandma,” he continued to whisper, “Mom’s still sleeping and Daddy went to get a newspaper, so I sneaked on the telephone.”
I chuckled at the thought of this four-year-old waiting for an opportune moment to phone his grandma, knowing he can call me any time, day or night. There are no restrictions on our relationship, certainly not with something as mundane as time.
“Is today a Grandma Day?” he asked hopefully. Grandma Days are the highlights of his young life.
“Yes, it is. Are you ready to come over?”
He assured me he was, and I was there at 8:30 A.M. sharp to pick him up.
“What would you like to do today?” I asked as we drove the few blocks to my home.
“Let’s go to Goose Lake, Grandma.” He giggled and said, “That sounds funny. Goose Lake Grandma!” He laughed as though he had made a huge joke and started chanting, “Goose Lake Grandma! Goose Lake Grandma!”
I got his tricycle out of the garage and we began the one-mile trek to Goose Lake, which is actually a man made lake in a residential area. Its real name is Foxwarren Lake, but to Logan it is Goose Lake because of the numerous Canada geese that have made it their home.
As he pedaled down the sidewalk, he practiced reading street numbers on the houses we passed. Then he counted by twos, fives and tens, and then backward from 100. He had an obsession with numbers. The bigger the number, the more he liked it.
“See that tree?” He pointed to an elm tree. “It’s going to turn into an apple tree soon. The apples might have little worms in them.”
I smiled at the idea of an elm tree bearing apples.
“Look, Grandma, a zillion dandelions!” We stopped to stare at a field, covered in yellow and white softness. “Dandelions are weeds,” he stated.
“Yes, they are,” I agreed.
“But I still like them.”
“I know you do,” I answered. He picked a dandelion that had gone to seed, closed his eyes and blew the white puffy tendrils away.
“I made a wish. Do you want to know what I wished?”
“If you tell me, it won’t come true,” I said.
“But I want you to know,” he insisted.
“Well, if you whisper it in my ear, then it should be okay.” I bent down, and he cupped my ear with his hand and whispered his wish.
He
stopped to pick up a feather, examined it closely, then put it into his bicycle basket. An unusual stone followed the feather, adding to his treasures from nature.
At Goose Lake we played in the park and watched the geese, which observed us, hoping for a handout. “Look at all the ducklings,” remarked Logan, watching the fuzzy yellow babies waddle after their very protective parents.
“They’re called goslings,” I corrected. “Baby ducks are ducklings, and baby geese are goslings.”
“Well then, they should be called gooselings! Look, there’s Mother Goose!”
Disappointed that we didn’t have food to offer them, Mother Goose gave a warning hiss and shuffled off with her little ones in tow, plunging into the lake. I guess they couldn’t read the sign that stated “No Swimming”.
On the way back home, Logan recited the house numbers on the other side of the street. He tried to whistle and when a faint sound came out, he announced gleefully, “I have magic lips!”
“Hold my hand, Grandma,” he said, so I did. He pedaled his tricycle, steering with the other hand. I recalled what his mother said to him as we left that morning. “Have a good day with Grandma,” she said, blowing him a kiss.
“I always do,” Logan said. He paused, then continued, “And I always will!”
As he pedaled along, I squeezed his chubby hand in mine, remembering his dandelion wish . . . that every day be a Grandma Day, and “a grillion days more.”
I knew I’d hold his hand for a while but his heart forever.
Maria Harden
Afternoon Delight
A grandmother is a little bit parent, a little bit teacher and a little bit best friend.
G. W. Curtis
Mishelle’s brown eyes sparkled during the entire ceremony. She couldn’t wait for the day she graduated from kindergarten, and had talked about it for weeks. Now she was standing on the stage with her classmates. Twenty five-year-olds wore blue graduation caps with tassels brushing against rosy cheeks flushed with excitement.
Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul Page 10
