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A Gift from Grandma

  I used to think my grandmother hated my grandpa. I’m probably the only kid in school who ever felt like that about his grandma but I don’t feel that way anymore. It’s just that every story I’ve ever read said that grandmothers are the most loving creatures on earth. Three years ago, my grade-five teacher even brought a plaque to hang on the classroom wall that said ‘grandchildren are a person’s reward for reaching a ripe old age’—or something like that. My grandmother, however, always acted like anything but a person who deserved a reward—at least when it came to grandpa. For one thing, she was taller than him and had a habit of calling him ‘shorty’; and sometimes, towering over the sink peeling potatoes, or even while bending to slide another pie into the oven, she’d suddenly pester grandpa who was minding his own business, asleep in front of the TV, an open book about to slide off his lap.

  She’d say stuff like: “Hey old geezer, the lawn needs mowing. Get that flat butt of yours out there and make it good for something other than passing air.” Or she’d ask him if his fingers were too sore to answer his brother’s letter—stuff like that.

  “Yes, cutie,” grandpa always mumbled, snapping out of a loud snore.

  Several times I saw her wink at my mom and accuse grandpa of stirring the pot. I never knew what she meant by that and I never understood why mom started laughing.

  “I may be stirring the pot but you’re the one making the stew,” grandpa always flung back with a grin of his own, to which she replied “that’s it, broken nose, keep pushing them buttons.” I never knew what buttons she was talking about; ours was an old stove with dials.

  And that wink she always threw in, it seemed to say ‘I fixed his butt’.

  Only I don’t think grandpa’s butt needed fixing; and it wasn’t flat, either.

  As for his snoring, she often complained to my mom about that too.

  “Goodness gracious, Linda, you’d think a 747 was coming in for a landing right there in our bedroom.”

  “Well Martha,” grandpa once told her through a laugh that never made sense to me. “All I know is that you’ll miss my sonic booms when I’m no longer here.” I would have thought that he’d be angry.

  “I doubt it,” she said, always wanting the last word. “Since when does the other end elicit a ‘he shoots-he scores’?”

  “Not always,” grandpa said. “I sometimes hit the post.”

  “Oh go on with you,” grandma said, shooing him away. And he laughed so hard that his eyes watered. It really confused me. But I don’t think grandma should have been making fun of grandpa like that. I had seen him play hockey and he wasn’t very good. For a guy like him, hitting the post should have gotten him a pat on the back.

  Anyway, whatever the chore, grandpa always acquiesced and, after finishing, he curtsied towards grandma, grabbed his blue baseball cap and went out for a walk, usually to the nearby park. Sometimes, he’d grab his fishing rod, beckon me with a twitch of his neck and together we strolled down to the river where we’d cast our poles underneath the bridge for a couple of hours, tell each other knock-knock jokes and return home without a single fish. How grandma could be mean to my grandpa was a mystery to me—a mystery that grew deeper last year when he died.

  Grandpa never woke up one morning and I remember feeling numb. I was still eleven years old and I knew I would never see him again. I also remember thinking that grandma must be relieved not to have to scold grandpa for falling asleep in front of the TV anymore. But to my surprise that was not her reaction at all. In fact, she stopped being the grandma I knew. She stopped baking and she spent most of her time doing exactly what grandpa used to do—sit on the couch in front of the TV. Only she didn’t fall asleep. She just sat there, staring at the screen, never changing the channel. Sometimes she didn’t even turn it on. And sometimes she lingered next to grandpa’s picture on the stand inside the balcony door and lit another vigil candle—every morning it had to be a fresh one. She said it made her feel closer to him somehow; that it felt too much like she was leaving him behind otherwise. Afterwards, she always went back to the couch.

  Grandma’s changed behavior began to worry my mom and she made an appointment for grandma to see the doctor. But grandma refused to go.

  “Well you can’t spend all your time brooding on that couch,” mom finally told her. Strangely, grandma got up, grabbed her shawl and grandpa’s blue baseball cap and went out the door.

  “Follow her,” mom told me. “Make sure she’s safe.”

  I watched grandma go into the park and take the very same route that grandpa used to. I ran up to her.

  “Grandma, are you okay?”

  She didn’t respond.

  I shook her arm. “Grandma, you’re scaring me. Are you okay?”

  She pointed that long, bony finger of hers towards a tree, the likes of which I had never seen. I followed her and we ended up sitting on the bench next to the tree. It was funny-looking, with intertwining branches that were begging to be untangled. Fluffy white petals were on the ground all around it. How could such an ugly tree make such beautiful flowers?

  “Are you there, Wally?” she said after a while, calling out grandpa’s name. “Those petals you used to like in my hair ... I think they’re dying off ... just like me.”

  I was shocked to hear those words and we both sat in silence for a long while—until I noticed the silhouette of someone striding towards us on in-line skates. It was a woman in white shorts and blue top. Grandma caught me staring and shook her head. She turned to look at the tree and nodded a few times.

  “Give me ice-skates anytime. Remember those Wednesday nights at the arena?” she suddenly said.

  “What do you mean, grandma?” I looked around to see if anyone else was there. She continued to stare at the tree.

  “Every couple hand in hand, striding to the exact beat of the tunes: song ... sung ... blue1 ... On speed skates, too! I’d like to see these kids try their fancy moves on those long blades.”

  She sighed.

  “You left me behind, Wally. And I’m tired.”

  This time my shock overcame me. “Grandma, don’t talk like that. You still have us.”

  The in-line skater smiled and waved as she flashed by. “Good morning. Enjoy the beautiful day.”

  Grandma half-raised her hand, as though not interested in reciprocating the friendly gesture. Instead, she leaned over to gather two white petals into her palm. She brought her hand up to my face so I could take a closer look. “Your grandfather and I were young once and these meant something special to us.”

  I closed her hand around the dying flowers. “You mean something special to us, grandma. Let’s go home. Mom’s waiting.”

  “Wait.” She reached under her shawl. “Here, take this.”

  Grandma clasped my hand in both of hers. When she pulled back, she left a small brooch in my palm. It looked like a sheaf of wheat.

  “Your grandfather gave it to me. He said it’s from The Little Prince2, something from one of those nonsense books he was always reading.”

  “Wow! I, uh ...” I stared at the trinket in my palm, not really knowing what to say. Our grade six teacher had read us the story and I knew exactly what it meant. Sharing this particular token with my grandfather made my eyes teary and she could tell.

  “It’s okay,” grandma said. “Just accept it.”

  “Gee ...”

  “Don’t give it another thought. Now let’s go home.”

  Grandma never woke up the next morning and I wondered if she had worked it out that way with grandpa. Three days later, the church was packed as everyone paid their respects, clutching the little remembrance card with grandma’s particulars on one side and a prayer on the other.

  “I don’t think I really knew her until now,” I told my mom, struggling with my composure.

  Mom answered with a nod. “Your grandma was a complex person, that’s for sure.”

  “But it’s just not fair. I missed my chance.”

  “Who is to say what’s fair? I got acquainted with my mother mainly through my dad’s relationship with her. All I know is that they were born for one another and that’s why she missed him so much. I guess it was her time.”

  On the pulpit, the reverend had begun to speak about grandma. “You know, brothers and sisters,” he said. “Martha continued to volunteer here at the Church even into her later years. Wally used to tease me, saying that I should either start charging her rent or else just send her home to him. Well, Wally—” I thought I heard the reverend’s voice crack. “Today I’m sending her home to you.”

  That day I understood exactly why grandpa was never mad at grandma and why he stirred her pot.

  He, and all those other people in Church, liked her stew.

  1 A reference to Neil Diamond’s Song Sung Blue

  2 A reference to Antoine de St. Exupery’s Le Petit Prince