Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul (29 page)
These items always were the same, but she made the list anyway. Pond's face cream, hairnets, Jergen's hand lotion, support hose, chocolate-covered raisins, writing paper and envelopes, and some “good cheese.” My dad would drive us into our small town with my grandmother sitting happily in the front seat clutching her pocketbook and my brother and sister and me in the back. Our destination was the G. C. Murphy store where, instead of just looking at things, we would be leaving with treasures.
Grammie, as we called her, loved these trips. She took her time examining the support hose, the hairnets and the cold creams. We hung by her side as she made her decisions . . . always choosing the same items. Then we were free to pick out something. I always got a book, my brother a car of some sort and my sister usually got chocolate candy. Grammie would then pick out something for our other sister, too little yet to go on these magical shopping trips.
Next we'd go to the grocery store and she'd load the cart with anything we wanted . . . all the things my mother never bought. I can still hear her urging our dad to get something. “Go ahead, Buddy. I have enough to pay for it.” We laughed at hearing him called by his childhood name.
I never saw my grandmother buy a new dress for herself, but she gave me money for my high school graduation dress. I never saw her buy new shoes or even a coat. She was always “making do” with her own things, but spending generously on those she loved. She lived with my dad's sister and her other grandchildren in Pittsburgh, and they experienced the same generosity.
The only month of the year she did not follow this ritual was December. She saved that check for Christmas presents. Each December she made yet another list . . . the list of what we wanted for Christmas. We had to give her three or four ideas so she could surprise us with one. Christmas was wonderful with the arrival of Grammie and all her mysterious, oddly wrapped packages.
Time moved on and I went off to college. By this time there were seven children in my family and some of my cousins now had children of their own. Grammie's check had to be stretched even further. The first letter she sent me at college read:
Dear Patti Jo:
My check came yesterday and I wanted to send you something,
but I guess you have all the books you need there at college.
Here are a few dollars so you can go out and have
something nice to eat with your new friends.
Inside the folded sheets of the familiar writing paper I had watched her purchase time after time were three carefully folded dollar bills. This was the first of many such letters I received at college. Each letter during that first year contained folded dollar bills . . . my grandmother's love reaching across the miles . . . her check stretching very far.
And then I got the last one. She sent a five-dollar bill, a list of what I should get with it and instructions to save some too. The list was long. I laughed, knowing that it would never cover all that Grammie wanted me to have.
Before the next letter arrived, the news came that she was in the hospital. By the time I got to Pittsburgh, she had slipped into a coma. Sitting by her intensive care bed, I was besieged with grief, realizing that I would never talk to her again . . . never again witness her generosity and appreciation for the smallest of things.
My grandmother had no will, no bequests, nothing to leave anyone . . . she gave it all away to those she loved while she lived.
Not too long ago, I was out to dinner with my parents and I offered to pay.
“You're just like my mother,” Dad said.
I've never ever received a nicer compliment. Grammie left me more than I ever realized.
Patti Lawson
“Now, now dear, I'm sure your mom is spoiling him
because she loves himânot for revenge!”
Reprinted by permission of Dave Howell. ©2005.
W
hen thou makest presents, let them be of such
things as will last long; to the end they may be in
some sort immortal, and may frequently refresh
the memory of the receiver.
Thomas Fuller
A neon envelope glowed between magazine circulars.
Hmm, a letter,
I thought. Anything other than junk mail and bills in the mailbox was rare these days, since most of my communications came by telephone and e-mail.
I examined the square envelope. The writing was unmistakably Grandma Caryle's, but why would she send a card? My birthday wasn't for another two months.
What's she up to this time?
I wondered.
I ripped open the envelope as I walked back to the house. Inside was an adolescent-looking party invitation with the words “Happy Birthday” on the front. Opening the card, I read:
You're invited
To a surprise party
At Grandma Caryle's house
On August 9 from 2-4 p.m.
Laughing out loud, I ran to the house. My eccentric grandmother always liked celebrating. In fact, her birthdays usually lasted all month, with many lunches, dinners and visits with friends and family members.
I dialed her number.
“Hi, Grandma, I got your invitation in the mail just now,” I said.
“Oh!” she exclaimed in an exaggerated tone. “Did you call to RSVP?”
I giggled at her mock coyness. “Of course I'll be there. But it's customary that someone other than yourself host a surprise party when you're the guest of honor,” I teased. “After all, you won't be surprised if you plan the party.”
Grandma paused. “Well, you know how I love parties. I'm sure we'll have lots of surprises,” she replied. “And if we don't, I promise to act surprised.”
We both laughed and hung up the phone. Grandma had never planned a birthday celebration for herself and certainly never a surprise party, but then she'd never turned seventy-five years old either.
During the next few weeks, I tried to think of ways I could make Grandma's birthday special.
“Let me bake a cake,” I offered.
“I already ordered one,” she answered.
“What about decorations? May I decorate your house?”
“I'm using potted chrysanthemums,” Grandma said. “Less to clean up, and I can plant them in my flower beds afterward.”
Since she was planning the entire event, I wanted to do something extra to add an element of surprise. I decided to write on her driveway with sidewalk chalk and bring helium balloons.
That ought to surprise Grandma,
I thought.
Finally, Grandma's birthday arrived. I called that morning and sang “Happy Birthday.” After the song, I playfully asked, “Are you surprised?”
“Oh, yes,” Grandma said with glee.
Thirty minutes before the party, I chalked “Happy Birthday, Caryle” on her driveway. I attached balloons to the front yard trees and mailbox. Gifts and more balloons were unloaded from my car, and I rang the doorbell.
“Surprise,” I shouted as she opened the door.
Grandma laughed. I put her gifts on the hall table and started into the dining area with the balloons. We always celebrated birthdays around the dining room table.
“Don't go in there,” shouted Grandma as she blocked the doorway.
“I thought I'd tie the balloons to the dining room chairs.”
“Take them into the living room. I don't want you to see the cake just yet,” she instructed. “After all, this is a surprise party!”
Perplexed, I obeyed.
Soon, Grandma's best friend, sister-in-law, niece, stepdaughter, daughter-in-law and her other granddaughter, my sister Shelby, arrived. We sat in the living room, talked and snacked from party trays.
“Where's Dad?” I asked. My father, her only child, was conspicuously absent.
“Not invited,” she replied. “It's a girls-only party.”
We all laughed.
“Say, Caryle, I could see your yard decorations from down the block,” remarked Aunt Gay.
Grandma looked confused.
“Come see,” I said, gently taking her arm. We walked outside.
“Are you surprised?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” answered Grandma.
Back inside, someone suggested opening gifts. Grandma sat down, and Judy, her daughter-in-law, handed over a gift bag.
“Open this one first,” she ordered.
Inside was a rhinestone tiara.
“You're the birthday queen,” proclaimed Judy.
Grandma's eyes glowed with excitement as she unwrapped the packages. Inside, I felt regretful that I'd never thought to throw her a party and that this one wasn't really a surprise.
Once the gifts were opened, Grandma announced, “We have cake in the dining room.” She got up and led the way.
“That was abrupt,” remarked my sister. “She must be hungry.”
We filed into the dining room. On the table was a quarter sheet cake with the word “Surprise” on it and seven small boxes of various sizes.
We took our seats and Grandma began. “As you know, today is my seventy-fifth birthday and I've invited you here to celebrate with me. For many years, you've been a part of my life. I love you and although I'm not planning to die anytime soon, I want you to have something to remember me by.”
We sat speechless.
“This is not a surprise party for me, but for you.”
Grandma gave each of us a box.
“Stacy, you go first,” she instructed.
I removed the lid. Inside was a diamond ring that I'd seen on Grandma's finger.
“It belonged to your great-aunt Hazel,” she said quietly. “I inherited it when she died twenty-five years ago. I want you to have it.”
Tears pooled in my eyes.
“Are you surprised?” mimicked Grandma in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“I thought sidewalk chalking was a big surprise,” I said, hugging her neck. “Thank you so much. You're amazing.”
On that, her seventy-fifth birthday, Grandma gave away her wedding ring set, her mother's strand of pearls, and several heirloom rings and bracelets. As each box was opened, she quipped, “Are you surprised?”
And indeed, we all were. Not only was the party a surprise for us, but a reminder of her generosity and love. Every time I wear that diamond ring, I think of Grandma Caryle and the legacy of fun I inherited from her.
Surprise!
Stephanie “Stacy” Thompson
I
f I cannot give bountifully, yet I will give freely,
and what I want in my hand I will supply with
my heart.
Arthur Warwick
Here's the math:
Six grandchildren. Eight days of Hanukah. One gift per child per day.
I wasn't going to provide thatânot when our grandchildren were blessed with loving families who see to their needs, and then some.
So I've devised a quite different Hanukah plan. I get each grandchild a small purchased gift. One. It is never of such magnitude that I worry about the object being injured, maimed or destroyed. Mind you, four of the six are little boys under the age of eight.
Then I work on what I've come to think of as my “real” gift.
Because Hanukah is really about miracles, and because these six wondrous creatures are just that, I devote myself to this challenge:
I spend hours, sometimes weeks, preparing a letter to each child, even the two who are preverbal, to say nothing of preliterate.
I sit at my computer and secretly “talk” to it about Sam or Hannah, Jonah or Zay, Danny or Baby Emily. I chronicle who they are at this moment in their emerging histories. I catalogue conversations we've had, stories they've told me, names of their friends, their adored toys and stuffed animals, endearing habits, bedtime rituals, school anecdotes, even favorite articles of clothing.