by Edward Fays
Inspired by PETER WHISTLER
Midnight at the Diner
My life is like a junk drawer. A bunch of odds and ends, nothing complete, nothing useful on its own. Just pieces that haven’t been thrown away yet because maybe someday, with a little luck, they’ll be put to good use, somehow, somewhere.”
It was late, past midnight, when I got a call from my friend Kelly asking me to meet her and she shared those feelings with me. While sitting in the back booth at a Waffle House and emptying four cups of coffee, I listened. Her mother had recently passed away, her dad had been laid off from work, and the few relationships she did have were like musty clothes hanging in a closet that no longer fit. They just filled her life with clutter.
Kelly was abused as a child. Not severely enough that people had noticed, but enough to damage her on the inside, emotionally. An uncle who had moved away and lost touch with the family was the source of her emotional anguish. She saw a couple of different therapists as an adult but always stopped treatment, although she never said why, just that she wasn’t getting anything out of it, so why waste the money?
I’ve always felt that one of the best ways to heal painful old memories is to begin creating happy new ones. That may seem obvious and perhaps even naive, but if we don’t create happy memories for ourselves then what are we left with, except the ones we’d rather forget?
Pointing to a crumpled pile of blue Equal packets, a couple of stained napkins, and a bunch of empty creamer containers, she sighed, confessing, “This is what I feel like sometimes.”
“Would you like another cup, honey?” the waitress asked.
“Number five, why not. Thank you, Bernice,” I said, having already noticed her crooked name tag. I smiled at her, aware that she’d heard portions of our conversation over the past two hours when returning to fill my bottomless cup. She appeared to be about fifty, but working nights in a diner could age you, I thought, so she may have even been younger. She filled the mug about an inch from the top and fished a couple of creamers from the pocket in her grease-splattered brown apron. Slid them over to me with a smile. Strands of lifeless brown hair were slipping out from the bun she tied on top of her head, and her black shoes looked as if they’d made a few thousand trips from the counter to the tables. I noticed her fingers, red around the tips from years of hard work, but her nails were painted a soothing shade of pink. A sign that there was another part of Bernice peeking out from behind the dingy uniform and plates of waffles and grits she served to her customers.
“Do you like working nights?” I asked her.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “My daughter is a single mom. She works full time and goes to school, so working nights means I can take care of Kylie, my granddaughter, during the day.” Her tired brown eyes suddenly sparkled.
Swiveling around and heading toward the counter, she abruptly turned back, placing the hot pot of coffee down on the table. “You mind if I say something?” she said. “I never went to college and I may be just a waitress on the graveyard shift but working here has taught me a lot about people. What makes them happy, sad, and how they end up feeling one way or the other. You’d be amazed at what people admit to when sitting alone in a place like this at three in the morning. I guess they feel safe. The rest of the world is asleep, a lot of them have been driving and thinking, and when they get here they’re in need of some conversation so they open up, telling me their most private thoughts and feelings. I’ve seen people come here after a night out and they’re hungry, laughing, and having a great time. At another booth some lonely guy is staring at his reflection in a spoon, watching his nose grow and shrink depending on what side of the spoon he’s gazing into. One night a guy locked himself in the bathroom. Threatened suicide. The only people here were the cook and me, and he doesn’t speak much English. I dialed nine-one-one but ended up talking the guy out of there before the police showed up. He was eating a waffle, on the house, when the cops arrived and carted him away.
“Honey,” she said, turning to Kelly, “have you ever seen one of those bird feeders that hang off a tree and the birds fly over and peck at it when they’re hungry? That’s probably how you feel, like you’re being used and pieces of you are missing. When we give to others and don’t get anything in return, that’s what happens. There are selfish people in the world and, like those birds, they’ll nip away at whatever you have to give—love, money, your time—but they won’t give back. You’ve got to cut those people off and give to the ones who appreciate you. By doing that not only will you feel complete, you’ll expand. Sift through that junk drawer of yours,” she said with a wink, “and throw out the stuff you don’t need and put to good use the things you do. Now go home and get some sleep, you’ve got a big day coming up.”
“What do you mean?” Kelly asked. “What big day?”
“The first day of spring is a couple of days away. That means you’ve got to throw out all the old stuff you don’t want and buff up the things you want to keep. Strengthen the relationships in your life that are most important, like family and friends. Like this guy here.”
She pointed at me.
Kelly smiled. It was the first one I’d seen in a long time and I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself that it was a night waitress at the Waffle House who helped her through that storm. I knew she had other issues to face, but Bernice gave her a boost. A running start.
On the way out I held the door for a rumpled man who looked like he had been driving all night. It had begun to drizzle and a light mist silvered the parking lot. Sliding behind the wheel of my car, I watched the man take a seat at the counter while Bernice poured him a cup of coffee. At that moment she seemed much more than a waitress. In the hazy solitude of the night, with the diner’s yellow neon sign flickering in the mist—a halo?—she seemed like a guardian, soothing the spirits of lonely travelers while the rest of the world slept. Starting my car, I shrugged off that thought, saying, “Come on, I’m just getting caught up in the mystery of the moment. The stark silence of the night.”
Then Kelly appeared, clicking her ring on my passenger’s-side window, a smile stretched across her face like a rubber band. As the window slid down she reached her hands out to me and said, “Thank you. This is the best I have felt in a long time. I know it sounds crazy but I’m going for a drive. For the first time in a long while I actually feel like being alone with my thoughts. Maybe straighten out that junk drawer in my head.”
She blew me a kiss, hopped into her car, and sped off. I sat watching the rain cluster on my windshield, Bernice a blurry vision behind those cascading droplets. When I flicked the handle the wipers swiped the rain, clearing the scene. She saw me sitting in the car and raised her hand. I waved back and drove out of the parking lot recalling a phrase I’ve heard many times before: God works in mysterious ways. With a half smile I thought to myself, Perhaps Bernice is one of His employees.
Inspired by BERNICE,
last name unknown
Guess Who?
I always laugh when I call my grandmother. She’ll pick up the phone by the third ring, but it takes a few seconds before she raises the receiver to her ear and says, “Hello.”
“Hi, Gram!” I enthusiastically blurt out.
“Who is this?” she asks with a baffled tone in her voice. “Brian, is that you?”
“No, Gram, it’s Eddie.”
“Oh, Edwood [that’s the way she pronounces my name]. I get all you boys mixed up. Brian, George, Michael, Pete, Tom … I don’t know who’s who anymore.”
Gram likes to joke about how mixed up she always gets, so she tosses a few extra names into the mix. I have only two brothers, Mike and Brian. I don’t know who George, Pete, and Tom are—perhaps older gentlemen in the neighborhood who have the hots for my grandmother.
Grandmas come in all shapes and sizes, but there’s one thing they have in common—grandchildren. Grandmas are also notoriously loving individuals. There are three things you can count on when you stroll int
o Grandma’s house.
One: The delight in her face as she greets you at the door. Who else is ever that happy to see you? But that’s how grandmas are made. When you need a little unconditional love, Grandma is always there for you.
Two: The furniture and decor of her home probably haven’t changed since you were young. That’s part of her charm. The Christmas gift you gave her when you were five still sits proudly on display, and the smell and look of the house rekindle fond memories of years past.
Three: Whether you’re hungry or not, you’re going to eat. Grandma always has something tucked away in the fridge for special visitors. And if she doesn’t, she’ll whip up a tasty dish within a few minutes.
Shannon, a little girl in the second grade, described grandmas best. The class was having a discussion about religion and the teacher asked, “Why didn’t God put angels on earth?” Shannon raised her hand and said, “He did, we just call them grandmas.”
Inspired by MARY COLUCCI
The Life of a Grandchild
As a Baby Grandchild
Who are these people who look at me with delight in their eyes? I’m just lying here, and they seem captivated by me. They even like changing my diaper; something must be wrong with them. Other babies seem to have these strange people hovering over them, too.
Oh! Now I get it. These giddy people who can’t stop smiling are grandparents. I hear all they do is brag about their grandchildren to anyone who will listen. Well, as long as they feed me, that’s fine with me. I think I’m going to like my grandparents.
As a Young Grandchild
I’ve known my grandparents for a few years now and I’ve got their purpose figured out. They’re like representatives for Santa Claus. Since he only comes once a year and brings gifts for everybody, grandparents come around regularly and attend to only a few children—their grandchildren.
Mom, when are we going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house? They’re the best. They let me eat as much ice cream as I want. How come you’re not like them? Don’t you want to make me happy? You do? Well, then, why can’t I have ice cream before dinner? But it says ALL NATURAL right here on the box. It’s just like vegetables, only it tastes a lot better.
As a Teenage Grandchild
Can I bring a friend to Grandma and Grandpa’s house? Sometimes I get bored over there. They’re not as much fun as they used to be. Mom, when are we going to leave? We’ve been at Grandma and Grandpa’s all day. Don’t you know I’ve got more important things to do?
As a Young-Adult Grandchild
Sorry, Grandma and Grandpa, I won’t be home when you come over. I’ve made plans with some friends to go away for the weekend. I’ll see you next time. I’d like to attend the family gathering, but I’ve got other commitments. You understand. Sure, Mom, you know I love Grandma and Grandpa, but I’m busy. They can’t expect me to just slow down.
Yes, Mom, I’ve been meaning to call them, but you know how things go. I’ve got final exams coming up. Thanks for coming to my graduation, Grandma and Grandpa. Sorry we didn’t have more time to talk but I’m heading to a party with some friends. ”Bye.
As an Adult Grandchild with a Family and a Career
I know Grandma isn’t doing well, but what can I say? I’m twelve hundred miles away and busy with work, not to mention the kids. I’ll give her a call.
How are you feeling, Grandma? I know it’s been tough since Grandpa passed away. I hope to see you soon.
No, I can’t get away this weekend. The kids have Little League and I’ve got a dinner party on Saturday. I’m sure you’ll be out of the hospital and home soon, Grandma.
I have to reschedule the meeting for next week. My grandmother just passed away and I’ve got to attend the wake and funeral.
As a Retired Grandchild
It feels great to have the pressures of work behind me. Now I can spend time with my grandchildren. Hello, son, I was hoping you’d like to bring my grandkids over for the weekend. We can have a barbecue. Oh, you’re busy with work and the kids have swimming practice … well, maybe in a couple of weeks when your schedules clear, okay?
It’s good to see you, son. Where are my grandchildren? Didn’t they come with you? Oh, they wanted to go over a friend’s house instead? Do I understand?
Yes, for the first time I do.
Inspired by LEONARD GIBNEY
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM WARNER BOOKS
THE GRANDPARENTS’ TREASURE CHEST
A Journal of Memories to Share with Your Grandchildren
The times we spend with our grandchildren are among the most precious of our lives. So are the memories we share. This unique, beautifully designed journal gives grandparents a special way to celebrate the lives they’ve shared with their grandchildren in their own words. And as grandparents record their grandchildren’s achievements and family stories, they will pass on important lessons and create a priceless gift of love that can be treasured for generations.
A PARTING GIFT
by Ben Erickson
When his eldest son was about to graduate from high school, Ben Erickson, an award-winning furniture maker, decided that he wanted to give him something unique, something that would last him the rest of his life. And so he wrote his son a story. This is a powerful, poignant novel of a troubled teenager who is drawn into the world of a reclusive widower and comes to realize that his future is one of new wonders and endless possibilities. A moving tale of love and loss, friendship and wisdom, A Parting Gift is for everyone who has ever pondered the mystery of life.
“A touching story in the tradition of Tuesdays with Morrie.”
—Birmingham News
WHAT OUR CHILDREN TEACH US
Lessons in Joy, Love, and Awareness
by Piero Ferrucci
Children can turn our lives upside down and try our patience. But they also have the power to teach us the greatest lessons we’ll ever learn. Through sometimes hilarious, often moving, and always insightful anecdotes, Piero Ferrucci eloquently shows how each moment of parenting holds hidden surprises and opportunities for change. With their honest hearts and open minds, children can help us to reconnect with our own innocence and lead us to a place where we are more in touch with our true essence … and the many blessings in our lives.
“Brims with beautiful stories that touch the heart and heal the soul.”
—DR. STEPHEN R. COVEY, AUTHOR OF
THE 7 HABITS OF HIGHLY EFFECTIVE PEOPLE
Reassuring and loving presences, the elders of our community are always there for us, happy to share the lessons of their lives, their company, their memories, and their humor. Edward Fays knows well the power of grandparents—his own and others’. When Fays and his fiancée had to confront a devastating personal tragedy, he consoled her with his grandparents’ funny, warm, and inspiring stories. After they helped her heal, he began to collect anecdotes and lessons from grown-up grandkids and grandparents alike. The stories in A GRANDPARENT’S GIFT OF LOVE will make you think, make you laugh, and comfort you again and again.
“Takes us back in time and memory to the warm, safe places of life.”
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FUNNY, YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE A GRANDMOTHER
“The stories in this book are entertaining, moving, and touch many aspects of life.”
—DR. ARTHUR KORNHABER, PRESIDENT AND FOUNDER,
THE FOUNDATION FOR GRANDPARENTING
