A Grandparent's Gift of Love

by Edward Fays

  Inspired by JAMIE FRAZIER

  Little Things

  Once upon a time, a little boy was eating a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and watching Wile E. Coyote trying miserably to outsmart that feisty Road Runner. After each couple of bites, he took a big gulp from the tall glass of ice-cold milk on the snack table next to him. When reaching for the milk, he noticed his grandmother knitting a sweater nearby.

  At first the boy didn’t pay much attention, but by the third gulp of milk his curiosity was aroused. “Why are you making a sweater, Grandma, when you can just go out and buy one?” he asked.

  “I enjoy making sweaters,” she said. “And I pay more attention to detail than most of the big clothing companies who make millions of sweaters.”

  He looked at the sweater his grandmother was knitting—it was filled with a wide array of vibrant colors and patterns. Then he looked at his own sweater—solid navy blue. “Why are you putting so many colors in your sweater, Grandma?” he inquired.

  “Like I said, I pay attention to detail.”

  “But wouldn’t it be faster just to make the sweater one color?”

  “Yes, it would, but it’s the little things that count,” she replied. “Do you know the importance of the little things?”

  “No, Grandma. I usually like things big,” he confessed. “Like cookies and bowls of ice cream.”

  “Well, let me teach you about the “little things.” My grandma taught me this lesson when I was little and it has made all the difference in my life.”

  Taking his hand gently in hers, she said, “The greatest joys in life are made up of little things—a kind word passed from one person to another, a friendly wish, a courtesy, a compliment. These are the little things that make a vast difference.

  “Your great-great-grandma told me many years ago that moments are the golden sands of time. She said, “Every day is a little lifetime, and if we seize each day we are given, the effects can be life changing.”

  “Mountain springs are small, but they are the source of raging streams. The helm of a ship is tiny, but it keeps the massive ocean liners on course. Nails and screws are small enough to fit in your hand, but they hold large buildings and bridges together. A word, a smile, or a frown are little things, but they can alter someone’s mood and the course of his entire day. You see, it’s the little things in life that make a big difference.

  “Remember, even the biggest things are just an abundance of little things combined. The ocean is made of water droplets. Grains of sand join to make giant rock formations. Little acorns scattered on the ground are the beginning of immense oak trees. The person running a marathon must do it step by step. The person writing a book must do it one word at a time. And the little boy eating a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich must eat it one bite at a time—no matter how large that bite might be!

  “Many people think details are so small that if they are over-looked, no one will notice. They couldn’t be more wrong. The smallest leak may sink a ship. A tiny preference toward bad behavior can lead to a life of crime. A willingness to tell a white lie makes it easier to one day tell bigger lies.

  “Noticing the little things has resulted in some of the greatest discoveries and creations. Michelangelo, the legendary artist, was explaining to a visitor what he had been working on since their last meeting. “I have retouched this part, softened this feature, and brought out that muscle,” he said proudly. The visitor replied, “But these details are unimportant.” Michelangelo responded, “It is in the details where one finds perfec-tion.””

  Grandma continued, saying, “You are smart not because you know one giant piece of information, but because you know thousands of little facts. You may think many of these facts have little or no use, but you’ll find that they all serve a purpose and will come in handy during the most unexpected times. People will ask, “How did you know that?” and with an impish grin, you can respond, “I just pay attention to the little things.””

  More than two decades have passed since my grandmother shared her thoughts with me about the “little things.” Over the years I’ve heeded her advice, learning to pay attention to the details. From the lines in the petal of a flower to the nooks and crannies hidden in the crevices of the Grand Canyon, I look for the little things and am pleasantly surprised by what I find. One day, when I am fortunate enough to have a grandchild and she is ready to learn, I will be there to teach her about life’s little things and how they make all the difference.

  Inspired by MARY COLUCCI

  Hot Dogs and Little Hands

  Thoughts of you, grandson, as I hold your hand. The softness of your skin reminds me of how young you really are. It reminds me of your innocence and your naive view of the world. It is a thing of beauty. Your supple little hand tells me that you have no prejudice or hostility toward anyone. You offer only unconditional love.

  As your little hand pushes down on my knee and you thrust yourself onto my lap I notice how fragile your hands are. The nails are tiny. As I look at them I see the evidence that would find you guilty of playing in the dirt. That’s not a crime, of course, at your age; it’s to be expected.

  I look closely at your right hand as you use it to grab my shirt and situate yourself comfortably on my left knee. The gentle tug on my shirt feels unusually good. Often I shake hands with grown men or get a pat on the back from someone whose hand is adult size. The kindhearted grip you have on me feels much more pleasant. It feels like love.

  I extend my hand and offer to shake yours. Maybe it’s only the second or third time you’ve shaken hands. I think maybe it’s your first, but you give a good shake, so I know you’ve had some handshaking experience. The handshake is my way of saying that I think you’re a man. At least, that’s what I want you to think. Little boys like you always want to be treated like a man. The thing is, I like you just the way you are.

  In the midst of our conversation, your left hand goes up and with four fingers, excluding the thumb, you scratch an itch on your nose. One finger would have done the trick but I guess you wanted to make sure you got that itch. Maybe it was a big itch and you figured one little finger wouldn’t do the job. I noticed that all four fingers seemed to have worked. You didn’t scratch again.

  Your grandmother brings us each a hot dog with mustard. I’m glad to see you don’t like ketchup on your hot dog; I never understood why people put ketchup on a hot dog. I easily hold the bun in one hand and a napkin in the other to wipe my mouth. I notice you have a solid two-handed grip in the middle of your bun—no chance of that hot dog sliding out the rear and onto the floor. Your dog, Patches, is disappointed. He looks hungry. The napkin Grandma gave you is on the table. No need for that when you’ve got a perfectly good shirt to catch the mustard droplets, right?

  I finish my hot dog in a few bites; you take about ten. Thanks for taking your time. I enjoyed watching you. As you lick the mustard off your fingers I realize I forgot to tell you to wash your hands. But I guess the dirt under your fingernails wasn’t any worse than eating a hot dog. Who knows what they put in those things, anyway?

  Here comes a friend of yours. With your little hand, you pull on my shirt collar, lowering me down to your height. You plant a kiss on my cheek and say, “Thanks, Grandpa.” And with that, you’re gone—not far, probably into the backyard.

  I look over and there’s the napkin Grandma gave you. Still untouched. I guess it’s more fun to use your shirt. I take the napkin and date it. The caption: HOT DOGS AND LITTLE HANDS. Suddenly it’s priceless. Thanks for the memory, grandson.

  Inspired by BART COLUCCI

  A Perfect Fit

  It was a Friday night, just a couple of weeks into the New Year, and I was at Macy’s, sifting through the cubbyholes where they keep the Levi’s 560s, relaxed cut. With the chances of finding my size dwindling, I was thrilled to come across a pair I thought would fit. Tugging them from the pile crammed into the small red-and-blue cube, I hurried to the fitting room to try them on.


  Standing there in that tiny closet, my old pants crumpled in a ball on the corner seat and my potential new ones hanging on the hook, I did what most people do—became a fitting room model. Taking a good look at myself—up and down, back to front, my neck craning over my left shoulder to get a glimpse of what people see when they’re walking behind me—I thought, Not bad, used to be better, could be worse. Room fir improvement? Are you kidding?

  Grabbing the pants from the hook, I slipped them on. It was like squeezing a Butterball Turkey into a Ziploc pouch. I left the pants behind, atop a pile of clothes that previous fitting room models rejected probably for the same reason—none of us was quite ready for the fashion runway.

  Standing back among racks of shirts and surrounded by posters noting how stellar I could look in one of Calvin Klein’s sweaters, I spotted three generations of men engaged in very dangerous behavior—shopping without the guidance of a woman. A grandfather, father, and son, asking each other for advice, all looking a little perplexed and the boy, about twelve, wondering what he’d done to deserve such punishment. The father, a round jolly-looking man with jowls for cheeks, pulled a pair of pants off a rack and, hugging them against his waist, bellowed, “Son, what do you think of these?”

  The man’s rumbling voice reverberated throughout the store, causing heads to turn even over in the jacket section, about fifteen feet away.

  “Daaad,” chimed the boy, mortified that his tubby father was drawing attention to their little huddle among the khakis.

  “Well, I’m going to try them on, see if I can pinch myself into them,” he said with a hearty chuckle, and disappeared around the corner.

  “Steven,” said the grandfather quietly, “don’t be so ashamed of your dad. He’s a good man.”

  “Yeah, but he’s embarrassing, Grandpa. Can’t you see that?”

  “He doesn’t do it on purpose. Part of your embarrassment comes with your age. Twelve-year-olds are always ashamed of their parents. What if I gave you a big sloppy hug right here?” The boy cringed in disgust, as if someone told him the roast beef he was chewing was actually cow’s tongue.

  Laughing, Grandpa said, “Your dad’s feelings erupt when he sees you. Ever since he and your mom separated, he misses you terribly. He loves you, so make his feelings a top priority. Okay? Plus, no one is immune; we all have embarrassing moments, even parents with their kids. One day your grandson may be embarrassed to be seen with you. I know; hard to believe since you’re so cool, but it could happen. When your dad comes out, tell him the pants look sharp on him. It will make his day.”

  A moment later the father emerged from the fitting room, without the new pants. “Dad, where are your pants?” said the boy. “They looked sharp on you.”

  “Hanging in the dressing room,” he said with a smile. “That mirror tells no lies. I’ll come back in a month or two, give them another try. But thanks for the compliment; that means a lot to me. Where’s Grandpa?”

  “You know him, checking out the Armani ties,” said the boy. “He told us to meet him over there.”

  “My dad, he’s always in style,” said the father. “Come on, lets go.

  Standing behind a rack of discounted shirts I watched them amble away, leaving me with a tender heart and my thoughts prying into the past, searching for times when I’d felt embarrassed or ashamed to be seen with someone who cared about me. I couldn’t help but wonder why many of us risk hurting the feelings of the people who love us most just so we can appear more favorable in the minds of people we’ll probably never see again.

  I came there that night hoping to get a pair of pants and couldn’t find a size that fit. Instead I walked out with something priceless that didn’t cost me a dime. That’s the thing about wisdom: Someone always pays a price to acquire it, and there are plenty of people eager to give theirs away for free; all we have to do is listen. Unlike a pair of pants that we can’t squeeze into, when it comes to knowledge and the wisdom of understanding others, it’s always a perfect fit.

  Inspired by three strangers at Macy’s

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ENRICHING OUR LIVES

  Revealing unlikely avenues that lead to emotional highs and the best things life has to offer

  Opportunities for happiness are always within our grasp. When speaking with people who consciously pursue ways to improve their lives, it becomes obvious through their words and actions that they seize every chance to invigorate their friendships, offer a kind word to a stranger, and dedicate their time to what they truly love. This results in a level of joy that few people ever behold. They don’t just look forward to a special occasion that is far away; they live in the moment, making sure each day is uniquely memorable. Through their wisdom and the delightful parables they share, each of us can learn to do the same.

  You’ve Got Twenty-Four Hours … What Would You Do?

  How would you spend your time if you had only twenty-four hours left to live? That was the question Judy McFarland, a fourth-grade teacher, delicately posed to her class of twenty-eight students. It was a lesson about values, and helping each student recognize what is most important in his or her young life.

  As the students busily worked on their assignment, Judy sat grading papers behind her large pinewood desk at the head of the class. Every few minutes she looked up, her eyes sweeping over the innocent little souls that filled her classroom. Most of the students were busy scribbling down ideas in their notebooks; a few were looking up, their eyes rolled back, intently thinking about what to write next. That evening, while relaxing on the lounge chair in her backyard, Judy read the assignments, and was pleasantly surprised by what she discovered.

  “My family is the most important thing in my life,” stated Joshua, a boy with curly blond hair from the third row. “Maybe that’s because I’m only nine and don’t know anybody else yet, but even if I did I think my family would still be the most important. So if I only had one more day I would spend it with my family on a picnic where we would eat pizza and ice cream—my two favorite foods. The really special thing I would do is spend a little time with each person in my family and tell them why I love them. I fight with my brother and sister sometimes, but that would not be a day for fighting. It would be a day for love. I would spend time alone with my mommy and daddy, and my grandmas and grandpas, too, because they love me very much, and I love them.”

  Sammy, the class clown and occupant of the first seat in the second row—where he could be watched closely—said: “I would spend the morning doing what I do every Saturday with my big sister, Linda. We go to the children’s hospital near our house and visit the boys and girls who live there. I bring comic books and a different movie each week, but on this Saturday I would bring all my movies and books and give them away because I wouldn’t need them anymore. I would spend the rest of the day with my family and my pet hamster, Joey.”

  Sabrina, a bashful little girl with brown pigtails tied with pink ribbons who sat in the back of the fifth row, said: “I would share my day with the two people who are most nice to me. First, my grandma, who I live with and who treats me better than anyone else in the whole wide world. She hugs me and loves me and makes me feel warm and safe. The other person I would share time with that day is you, Ms. McFarland. You spend time helping me to learn more and become a smarter person. You are helping me build a future for myself and I would want to thank you because you’re doing such a great job. I know because my last report card had a gold star on top.”

  Judy sat there, her eyes prickling with tears as she thought of the kids in her class. She pictured the setting—her standing at the front of the room, a rainbow of construction-paper cutouts stapled to the walls, a piece of white chalk in her right hand, and each student sitting attentively in his or her seat. Sometimes I wonder about the effect I’m having on my students, she thought to herself. After reading those assignments she smiled, knowing that her influence was positive and profound. I’ve got them for seven hours a day, she thought. I am a teac
her, and I see the strength of the future sitting in my classroom. I am a teacher, and am helping to shape the world.

  And then Judy asked herself, What would I do with my last twenty-four hours? She beamed as the answer quickly revealed itself. As it turns out, she would spend a portion of that day doing exactly what she loves. Teaching.

  Inspired by KIM HUNTINGTON

  Children Laughing

  My wife, Beverly, and I loved to roam through the park near our home. We’d sit hushed on a bench near the edge of the pond and listen to the water slap gently against the rocks. We’d watch the ducks and the funny way their feet looked as they paddled through the water. Of course, we’d bring some crusty old Italian bread with us. Usually it was left over from the Sunday dinner we’d had with our family the night before. The ducks would jostle for it as soon as it hit the surface of the water. Those were wonderful times.

  Beverly died a few years ago, and Tommy, my son-in-law, got a job offer that was too good to pass up, in a town more than one thousand miles away. In no time I was the only one left at the Sunday family dinner, and the Monday-morning strolls with Beverly had become a memory. Life got very lonely, very quickly.

  I still meandered through the park each Monday morning and, although I was alone, I could feel Beverly’s spirit near me. Plus, it was the one time each week that I could hear that glorious sound of youth.

  An orphanage was nearby, and each morning around ten o’clock the kids were let out to play. They thundered out the doorway and, for the next twenty minutes, ran impulsively, played games, and had a marvelous time. In a world filled with anger, prejudice, and crime, hearing the virtuous laughter of those children was something I anticipated all week. Then I asked myself, Why wait all week? So I started going most mornings to feed the ducks and listen to the children play.