A Grandparent's Gift of Love

by Edward Fays

  Inspired by LUCILLE DAVIDSON

  A Parent’s Desire

  Sitting there in the corner were my son’s dingy sneakers. A little dry mud was caked on the edges; the shoelace on the left one had snapped but had been tied back together. I’ve got a new pair of laces in the closet; I’ll replace them later, I told myself. Next to the sneakers was a pair of my mother’s slippers. The terry-cloth fabric matted down hard, they looked dispirited, as if the life had been walked out of them. Next to the slippers was a pair of my shoes. Brown suede two-inch heels that complete the ensemble of my favorite suit—the one I wear on especially important workdays. I stared at the three pairs of shoes, a portrayal of the stages of life, and couldn’t help but get teary-eyed.

  My mother came to live with my husband, our two children, and me after my dad passed away. Initially we were happy to have her; somehow it helped everyone deal with the loss of my father. As the months passed, though, things grew increasingly tense.

  “Here’s your dinner, Mom, I hope you like it.”

  “Oh, but I’m not hungry,” she said in a slow drawl, as if she was considering every word before saying it. “The medication I’m taking ruins my appetite. Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to have dinner?”

  “No, Mom, you didn’t.”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought I told you.”

  “Please try to remember next time. I’ve got a lot of work to do and the kids are eating at a friend’s house so I only made dinner for you.”

  Her presence drained family time. My husband and I started arguing because he wanted to take the family on a weekend hiking trip and I was afraid to leave my mother alone for that long. I blamed her for the mounting tension in my marriage, and thought to myself that if she weren’t living with us we wouldn’t feel so trapped. Trips to the doctor were frequent and tedious. Sitting in the waiting room reading outdated magazines, thinking of the meetings I’d postponed, and knowing I had to prepare dinner that night and help the kids with their homework only increased my frustration. It reached a point where having a conversation wasn’t worth the effort.

  “How are you doing, Mom? How was your day?

  “Mom, how are you doing?

  “Mom,” I said, nudging her gently, “how was your day?”

  “Fine, dear,” she said, oblivious that I had asked her three times. I was mad at myself for getting angry and mad at her for causing me to get angry. My family was young, vibrant. Soccer and baseball games, cookouts, boating—these were the things we liked to do, but caring for my mother made me feel fenced in, like a dog in a cage.

  All that changed the night I stood staring at the three pairs of shoes on the floor. The men of the house were at a baseball game, and while preparing dinner I heard my daughter, Victoria, scream, which was followed by a series of thumps, each one amplifying until they suddenly halted. I ran from the kitchen and saw her squatting on the bottom step covered in soap suds. She’d gotten out of the tub and slipped on the top step, bouncing on her little behind all the way down to the floor. Her tender bottom was red as a beet and I couldn’t help but laugh a little on the inside. She looked so cute. I helped her towel off, and after pulling on her pajamas, she scurried over with her new coloring book and climbed into her grandma’s lap. While cooking dinner I overheard the two of them chatting and couldn’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “Who is that picture of, Grandma?”

  “That’s my mother. This is what your great-grandma looked like in her twenties.”

  “Do you miss her? I would miss Mommy if I didn’t see her every day.”

  “Oh, I miss my mother very much. She cared for me when I was a little girl just like your mommy cares for you. And the same way I am living here with you now, my mother lived with me. That’s what we do for the people we love. There’s something I want you to remember, Victoria. You must always remember your past. As you get older and move forward, your mommy and daddy will hold on to the memories they have of you as a little girl, like you are today. Keep that in mind as you grow into a woman. When children do that, their parents are blessed with happy days forever.”

  I’d heard enough and tiptoed away, the tears streaming down my cheeks. I turned off the stove, called for pizza delivery, and went upstairs and began flipping through old photo albums. I felt so ashamed, so selfish. I had shoved aside the memories and sacrifices my parents made during my childhood to make room for the new, just the way my mother was explaining. While holding photos of my mom and dad when they were younger than I am today I spotted my son’s sneakers, my mother’s slippers, and my brown suede shoes—a symbol of life’s stages.

  It was a profound moment. I learned that although my mom and I are at different places in life, she had sacrificed for me—and it is my privilege and duty as her daughter to do the same for her. After all, someday my children will venture out into the world, and I will watch as the distance and pace at which our lives unfold stretch the bond between us. Sitting there, I came to understand the greatest desire of any parent whose children have become adults is to remain a vital part of their children’s lives at every stage of life.

  Inspired by ANNETTE CARTWRIGHT

  People-Watching

  Time no longer has the same meaning for me. Mondays don’t feel like Mondays anymore, and I don’t look forward to Fridays any longer. I enjoy each and every day as it comes. I spend them sitting at a little café on a busy street corner just watching the people go by.

  As long as I can remember, I’ve loved to “people-watch” and wonder about their life stories. When someone catches my eye, I play a little game trying to guess what his interests are; what her name is; what he does for a living. My answers are based solely on what people are wearing, how they walk, and the persona or attitude they exude.

  Through the years I have found that there is no shortage of interesting characters. Some people walk by laughing, while others are crying. A few seem angry, while some people gaily run by. Others shuffle like they don’t have a care in the world. The people walking alone usually have a serious look on their face—as if they’re deep in thought. When I see a person, I ask myself: What makes her happy? What are his worst fears? What’s her greatest accomplishment? Does he like his career? Is she in love?

  Observing the subtle variances that make each person unique has given me a greater appreciation for individuality. When I was a young man bustling through the chaotic city streets I was too absorbed to notice people’s faces. I maneuvered through the crowd as if I was briskly pacing through a labyrinth in a maddening effort to reach my destination.

  Now, instead of being in the race, I watch from the sidelines. Perched as an astute observer, I leave prejudice and predetermined judgments behind.

  After seeing hundreds of people pass by on any given day, I have come to a conclusion: Despite the differences in dress, hairstyles, and a vast array of other interests and characteristics, we are all very similar.

  I see the unflappable businessman with a ruddy complexion toting an attaché case and barking commands into his cell phone. He passes a teenager on a skateboard wearing no shirt and threadbare jeans with a ring in his nose and a cigarette fastened securely behind his right ear. At first impression you would think these two have absolutely nothing in common. But a little contemplation, combined with a fundamental knowledge of human needs, makes it easy to arrive at an unexpected revelation: They are very much alike. Both need to feel loved and appreciated; they just have distinct ways of experiencing those emotions. Both want to succeed, though it’s safe to conclude that success has different meanings for each of them. Both prefer happiness to sadness. Both battle with feelings of insecurity and revel in the dynamics of feeling self-confident. Both need human contact, and both want to lead fulfilling lives.

  From my vigil at the place I like to call the Sideline Café, I have studied the human race and learned to value diversity. I’ve come to realize that the people I thought were so different from me in fact share m
any of my traits. While doused in the pandemonium of everyday life I saw the differences between myself and others, and was hasty in my judgments. Now, as I sit and watch an endless parade of people go by, I have come to identify the oneness we all share. I see myself in the people who walk, run, and even shuffle by. Sometimes I like the strengths I see—confidence and charisma. Other times their weaknesses remind me of my own—vulnerability and insecurity. My observations have enabled me to be a more compassionate and understanding human being.

  From that little cafe on a busy street corner, separated by a frail metal barrier, I have stood beyond the human race and peered inward, and that has made all the difference in how I live, and how I view our world.

  Inspired by DANIEL BRETT

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SIMPLE THINGS

  Beholding the splendor in everyday miracles and ordinary occurrences

  Most of us are consumed with things we have to get done or worry about trivia that will soon be forgotten but, at the moment, appears disturbingly urgent. In the midst of this chaos our attention to the wonders that surround us is muffled. We hear a song and enjoy the beat of the music but never hear the words that may eloquently depict our emotions. Learning to amplify our awareness is essential for absorbing the most out of life. These stories uniquely illustrate how we can heighten our sensitivity to life’s hypnotic details.

  The Cookie Tower

  I was sitting at the table reading the Sunday paper when my grandson, Andy, moseyed through the kitchen door. “Hi, Grandpa,” he said, in his childlike voice.

  “Hi, Andy,” I replied, watching him tread across the kitchen floor. One shoelace was untied, his hair was unkempt, and there was dirt on his face. The dog, Barney, followed closely in tow. I thought to myself, I love that little kid.

  I meant to go back to reading the paper, but found Andy’s behavior much more interesting. I observed as he reached into the cookie jar and stacked chocolate chip cookies one on top of the other on the counter. Then, with both hands, he cupped the bottom of the stack and let the “cookie tower” fall back onto his chest. I guess he didn’t mind that his shirt also had dirt on it.

  “’Bye, Grandpa,” he said.

  “’Bye, Andy,” I said, as he marched out. Barney followed closely in tow. I thought to myself, I love that little kid.

  I returned to the paper. A moment later I looked at my watch. It was nine thirty-two A.M. I chuckled, thinking of my grandson eating all those cookies. He wouldn’t be allowed to eat them if his parents were here. But I’m a grandparent, I thought. Along with loving that little boy, I guess part of my job is to let him eat two handfuls of cookies early in the morning. He’s happy. I’m happy. Barney is bound to get some crumbs and he’ll be happy, too. Life doesn’t get any better than this.

  Inspired by STEVEN DEAN

  An Old Photograph

  Memory is a wonderful thing—but it’s not perfect. It fades like a pair of jeans that have been tossed in the wash too many times. It chips like old paint, the pieces of special days lost somewhere, swept into the catacombs of our minds.

  Luckily there are pictures, especially the old ones with crooked edges and dates from long ago scribbled on the back. Photographs where the haircuts are goofy, the clothes are something we would consider wearing for a Halloween costume, and the faces of family members look young and unfamiliar, almost like strangers. These pictures, pinned down under plastic adhesive in dusty photo albums, help fill in the missing pieces and restore color to the memory of good times and people whose images have begun to fade or chip away.

  I held one of those photos in my hand recently. My grandfather Benny, decked from head to toe in white, wearing a painter’s cap and carpenter’s overalls, was sitting with five of his co-workers in the utility room of Sloan-Kettering Hospital in Manhattan. He was smiling as if he had just thought of a funny joke. The shelves of turpentine and caulking material that filled in the background and the white flecks of paint on his hands reminded me of how hard he worked.

  When thinking of Benny, the same memories always pop into my mind. Him taking pictures in the supermarket with his grandchildren. Perhaps it was the embarrassment I felt then and the joy I feel now that causes me to smile. Walking to the movies up the hill past a house that he jokingly said was haunted, I had believed him for years. Come to think of it, with its faded wood planks on the outside, untamed grass crowning the yard, crescent-moon slits carved into the front door, a pack of cats prowling the sagging front porch steps, and rusty cast-iron gate, my adult eyes would find that place spooky, too.

  The path to the movies was the same one he trudged each morning before catching the bus on Tremont Avenue that took him to work. I remember him saying it was always dark when he walked to the bus stop and I thought of how brave he was for passing that haunted house before the sun came up.

  The photo of Benny sitting there at work was a link in the chain of memories I have of him. It reminded me of the haunted house, the movies we saw, the ice cream he bought us afterward, and how none of us ever knows what moment will define who we are and how we’ll be remembered.

  What was on his mind when that picture was taken? I wondered.

  He liked to whittle slices off a long stick of pepperoni and pop them in his mouth. Maybe he was thinking of relaxing after work with some while watching the Yankee game. I’m sure as he posed for that photo he wasn’t thinking, This is how my oldest grandson will remember me. I thought of the times at parties when people wanted to take my picture and I said, “No, please, not right now.” Maybe I had a mouth full of cake and didn’t want that moment caught on film. And maybe I missed an opportunity to be remembered as a fun-loving guy with an insatiable sweet tooth.

  Memories fade and chip away, and often the tales of family members who came before us are laid to rest with the people who were around to see those vivid stories unfold. For most of us it’s the pictures of old times, good times, family times, that remind us of our history and the people who directly and indirectly influenced our life.

  The world’s most famous photos were simply one shot on a roll of film when they were snapped. We never know what picture will represent an era, a country, or a person’s life. Unique moments captured on film are decided over time and come to define the person, place, or event that keeps the color and pieces of people’s memories alive.

  Stand before the camera lens often because someday, decades and possibly even centuries from this moment, future members of your family will hold a tattered photo of you in their hands, stare at your strange haircut and funny clothes, and fondly remember you and why you were so special.

  Inspired by BART COLUCCI

  Home Sweet Home

  As an old woman lay dying in the hospital, her granddaughter Jamie came to visit. Feeling helpless, she asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, Grandma?”

  “Yes, Jamie,” her grandmother said feebly, “I’d like to see my home again. Is there any way you can make that happen for me, my dear?”

  “I’ll think of something, Grandma,” Jamie said. “I’ll find a way.”

  Jamie’s grandma passed away a few days later, and Jamie arranged for the funeral procession to pass the home where her grandmother had lived for more than fifty years. Days later, as Jamie helped to clean and organize her grandmother’s possessions, she found the following passage scrawled on a crusty piece of yellow paper stuffed in the bottom drawer of an old wooden desk. It was titled “Home Sweet Home.”

  Home is a place of enchantment that warms the heart and soothes the mind. It is the magic circle where we find peace and shelter from the harsh elements of the weather and the world. When we think of home, thoughts of love and tenderness instantly come to mind. Home has been defined as an oasis in the desert, a place where the fondest memories are created, a place where we are always welcome.

  If you ask a child, “What is home?” you’ll find that to her it means the world. Home is where she finds the unconditional love of her mo
ther and father. To a child, home is everything that matters. As adults, we remember with tender smiles the magic of the home in which we grew up.

  For everyone, home is a place of rest. It is what we seek most at the end of a bustling day. There are many places to find happiness and excitement, but none can match the joy of being home. When we’ve had enough and need to escape and simply be, home is always our destination.

  Home offers stability and peace. It is a familiar place that we have arranged to satisfy our needs for comfort and familiarity. Even after a restful vacation in a beautiful part of the world, as we walk through the front door the words we speak most often are, “There’s no place like home.” It’s where warm greetings await us, whether they are from our spouse and children or the enthusiastic love of our devoted family pet.

  Over time, home becomes more than a place to rest the body and mind; it is a haven for memories. For people who have lived in their home many years and raised a family there, the word home takes on even greater importance. The scuff marks on the wall are symbols of children playing. The well-faded spot on the floor in front of the stove is a reminder of how many meals were cooked there. The pictures on the walls are examples of how the family has grown and changed. The tiny tree planted in the backyard years ago now towers over the house and is a reminder of how much time has passed.

  It’s where holidays and birthdays are celebrated. It’s where we gather with friends during times of celebration. It’s where we choose to be in times of trouble and difficulty. It is a place of solitude and serenity. And while it protects us from the elements of Mother Nature, it showers us with love and blankets us with feelings of security. It is for all these reasons that the old saying speaks so much truth: Home is where the heart is.