“Little things can turn into wonderful things,” I repeated.
“That’s right,” she said.
Every Sunday I returned to the garden to check on the zucchini plants, and each time I saw more and more zucchini.
“Do you think there are so many because I take good care of the plant?” I asked.
“Yes,” Nana said, “when you look after things, good things tend to grow. You should remember that.”
“When you look after things, good things tend to grow,” I repeated.
“That’s right,” she said.
I looked after the zucchini plants even better after that. I removed brown leaves, and if one of those tiny tendrils couldn’t reach the lattice, I moved it a little closer. Nana did the same to the tomatoes. Then one Sunday I watched as she took the clippers and cut off one whole branch of the plant.
“Nana!” I put my hand over my mouth in shock. “What did you do that for?”
“The plant isn’t strong enough to have two good branches full of tomatoes,” she said. “I had to get rid of one so the plant could make the most of the other one.”
“Oh.”
“You might have to make the same kind of choice some day,” she said.
“What do you mean, I’ll have to get something chopped off?”
“No dear,” she said with a giggle, “but you might have to make some decisions, because sometimes you just can’t have everything.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
For months I returned every week to Nana’s to see how my plant was doing, and each time I was proud to see more zucchini. Until one day, when they stopped appearing, and a few weeks later, there were none.
“Nana, what’s wrong with my plant?” I asked tearfully. “It’s not growing anymore.”
“That’s what happens, darling. Things grow but then they stop. Nothing lasts forever.”
“But I was so good to it.”
“Yes,” she said, “but things end so new things can start.”
“And is there something I should remember?”
“Yes,” said Nana. “Seasons change, but for everything that ends, something new will take its place.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
I helped tend other garden plants, but one day I admitted, “I really miss the zucchini plants.”
“I know, darling.”
“I was thinking, Nana, what if we got Poppy to make a greenhouse? Then we could have zucchini plants all year.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe we should just wait for the right season.”
“But can we just try? Can I just ask Poppy? Please Nana.”
“I guess we can try,” she said.
Poppy agreed, and the next week I arrived to find a greenhouse constructed. The best part about it was the inside of the walls: there was lattice from top to bottom.
“This is the perfect home for zucchini plants,” I said.
“And tomatoes,” Nana added.
We planted zucchini on one side and tomatoes on the other. Week after week, the zucchini plants looked better and better. Nana’s tomatoes were just as good. Then the fruit came, and we both realized that this greenhouse worked perfectly.
“Look, Nana,” I said. “I have a little zucchini here and hundreds of flowers. These plants are going to be the best ever.”
“What a fabulous idea you had,” Nana said, squeezing my hand.
“Nana,” I said, “I think you should remember something.” “What’s that?”
“There is always a way if you want something bad enough.”
Nana turned and looked at me. I saw a tiny tear in her eye and for a moment, I thought she was going to cry. Then she smiled the biggest smile I have ever seen. She shook her head slightly and squeezed my hand again.
“Thank you, darling,” she said. “I will remember that.”
Shelley Ann Wake
Love’s Labors Found
Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.
Rose Kennedy
I was feeling horribly rejected. Spurned.
My grandson Isaiah, a feisty seven-year-old with a mind and will all his own, had decided he was too old to hug and kiss his grandmother. For that matter, Zay, as he is universally known, was too old even to bother with me.
When my husband and I made the two-hour round trip to see him in a school play for his two-minute walk-on, or made sure to be at his karate class for his (ahem) graduation, Zay would greet us with a grin—but keep his distance.
Once, when I forgot the mandate and hugged him in a public place, he reminded me of the ground rules: no hugging anywhere, especially not in public.
When I’d try to spend time with him before he went to bed, Zay seemed eager for me to leave so he could play with his “guys,” those strange creatures kids call “action figures.”
I needed advice and a little sympathy, so I turned to Zay’s mother, my daughter Jill, the same person who used to turn to me for solace. “What should I do?” I asked this daughter, who knew how much I was hurting.
Wise Jill assured me that seven-year-old boys often struggle with issues of independence and boundaries.
So I waited it out, just as Jill advised. I kept my distance from Zay and lavished my hugs on his sister and his younger cousins, who all hugged me back.
But it was downright painful to leave Zay’s room feeling that I was an unwelcome intruder. And waving goodnight to him from the safe distance of the doorway almost made me weep.
This wonderful little boy with the dark brown eyes who had once begged me to read him Goodnight Moon ten times in a row—who had pleaded with me to stay in his room long after the light went out—was testing my endurance for rejection.
On a recent visit, I was braced for the usual from this seven-year-old master of the rebuff. When I met Zay at his bus stop, to my surprise and delight he rushed toward me, and for the first time in too long I saw real delight on his face. I willed my arms not to dare reach out to him, but felt his hand grabbing mine even before the bus pulled away.
I didn’t dare show my surprise—or my soaring elation. This was the old Zay, the pre–seventh–birthday Zay. It was wonderful to have him back. Still, I was not going to be taken in by beginnings. I figured at home he would once again play the tough guy who didn’t believe in public displays of affection.
And I was half right.
Zay didn’t join in the ice cream party in the kitchen, a tradition that usually marked my visits, and he didn’t choose to join us in a spirited game of Go Fish. But at dinner, he begged to sit next to me. And at bedtime, he scrambled into his pajamas and brushed his teeth knowing that the payoff for speed was extra story time with me.
When I sat down on his bed, it was almost like old times. He asked for a “mouth story,” his way, years ago, of telling me not to read from a book but to invent one for him. As I began my tale, it was almost nostalgic, if one can be nostalgic with someone who’s only been on this earth for only seven years.
We laughed a lot in that mouth story, making up characters named “Clotilda” and “Bongi.” And when it was clear that he was ready to surrender to sleep—when those brown eyes fluttered a few times—I was ready to tiptoe out when Zay pointed to his cheek.
I got the message.
I leaned over and kissed him for the first time in too long.
Zay smiled. And so did I . . . for a week.
Sally Friedman
God’s Hands
You do not really understand something unless you can explain it to your grandmother.
Albert Einstein
Following her granddaughter’s baptism, my friend asked the youngster, “Why don’t you draw me a picture of what happened to you in church?”
Judy drew a large pair of hands with a child standing in the middle of them. Grandma was impressed.
“Oh, did they sing ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands’?”
Judy shook her head seriously. ??
?No, Grandma. That’s a picture of what Daddy said to Mommy. ‘Now that Judy is baptized, God is sure going to have his hands full!’”
Shirley Pope Waite
God’s Good Time
Where children are, there is the golden age.
Novalis
A few Christmases ago, I opened a gift from my son and daughter-in-law and was mystified to see a diaper nestled in holiday paper. Turning it over I read, “I love you, Grandpa and Grandma. See you in July.” Talk about fireworks! I instantly became a first-time grandmother-in-waiting, with all my time references revolving around that due date.
I told everyone I knew, and those who were grandparents all gave me the same glowing response. I would will my eyes not to glaze over while I listened to these sage words over and over again. “Just wait. You can’t imagine the joy and love of being a grandparent.”
Of course I could imagine! I had five children of my own, four nieces and seven nephews. I’d been there. I knew what it was all about. In fact, I already loved this baby.
June took more than its fair share of summer, and then July trudged into August, forgetting to leave us a grandchild along its way. “Everything in God’s good time,” I had always taught my children, but now I was really beginning to wonder if God might just need a calendar.
Every time the phone rang I jumped up thinking, This is it! If I was away from home I checked for messages every half hour. Cheryl, the mother-to-be, was kind and patient with me. I did try to limit my “How are you doing?” calls to no more than four or five or six times a day. I took her to lunch, matinees, craft sales, garage sales, anything to move the days along and hoping, just maybe, I would be with her when it happened.
If you noticed all creation sang in harmony on August 4, 1998, it’s because that was the day Joshua was gifted to this world. He was wonderful beyond words, and I was captivated by his every sound and motion, his very scent. And the first day of his life didn’t pass before I heard myself say to a grandmother-in-waiting, “Just wait. You can’t imagine it.” I’m not sure, but I think I saw her eyes glaze over.
When Joshua was three months old that little family moved two hours away. My husband and I saw him as much as possible, but it was never enough. We’d call each other Papa and Grandma just to hear the words.
Of course, Joshua learned to say “Papa” long before he said “Grandma.” On the phone he’d squeal “Hi, Papa!” all through the conversation.
He could say “coo-kee” and point to my cookie jar. He said “pease” for please and included the sign language gesture his mother taught him. He said “bite,” “ball,” “show,” “touchdown,” “cracker,” “outside,” and the list went on and on.
But no “Grandma.”
When Jason and Cheryl asked us to care for Joshua while they traveled to her brother’s wedding, we couldn’t say yes fast enough. I was reminded of the “We’ve Got Annie” musical number in the movie Annie. You know, tap dancing down the grand stairway, singing and twirling bed sheets in the air as we prepared his room. Okay, I admit, I do exaggerate a little—our stairway is more functional than grand.
Our four days together rushed by with swings, slides, choo-choos, playing trucks and reading stories. Joshua delighted us with kisses and reminded us to pray before each meal.
When we paraded him into church he pointed out every picture of Jesus. “Jethus love me,” he’d announce with absolutely no doubt about his lovability.
At home he’d stand eye to eye with the statue of Jesus in our living room. “Hi’ya, Jethus,” he would say, trying to shake hands or get a high five.
But still no “Grandma.”
The last night of his stay came too soon. I was in my bedroom folding his little clothes fresh from the dryer and packing them for home. I was missing him already when a scraping sound coming down the hall broke my thoughts. I looked out to see Joshua struggling to pull the statue of Jesus behind him. When he saw me, he righted the statue and flung his arm around its shoulders.
He smiled up at me. “Look, Gamma. I bring you Jethus!”
My heart filled until my joy spilled over into tears. God truly uses the simple to confound the wise.
Cynthia M. Hamond
“My grandma did the cutest thing the other day. . . . ”
Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. ©2005.
Jenny’s Antique
Grandmas are just antique little girls.
G. W. Curtis
My six-year-old granddaughter stares at me as if she is seeing me for the first time. “Grandma, you are an antique,” she says. “You are old. Antiques are old.”
Not satisfied to let the matter rest, I take out Webster’s dictionary and read the definition. “An antique is not only just old, it’s an object existing since or belonging to earlier times . . . a work of art . . . a piece of furniture. Antiques are treasured,” I tell Jenny as I put away the dictionary. “They have to be handled carefully because they sometimes are very valuable. In order to qualify as an antique, the object has to be at least one hundred years old. I’m only sixty-seven,” I remind her.
We look around the house for real antiques. There is a bureau that was handed down from one aunt to another and finally to our family. “It’s very old,” I tell Jenny. “I try to keep it polished, and I show it off whenever I can. You do that with antiques.” When Jenny gets older and understands such things, I might also tell her that whenever I look at the bureau or touch it, I am reminded of the aunt, so dear to me, who gave me the bureau as a gift. I see her face again, though she is no longer with us. I even hear her voice and recall her smile. I remember myself as a little girl leaning against this antique, listening to one of her stories.
Our tour of antiques continues. There is a vase on the floor that’s been in my house a long time. I’m not certain where it came from, but I didn’t buy it new. And then there is the four-poster bed, sent to me forty years ago by an uncle who slept in it for fifty years.
“One thing about antiques,” I explain to Jenny, “is that they usually have a story. They’ve been in one home and then another, handed down from one family to another, traveling all over the place. They’ve lasted through years and years. They could have been tossed away or ignored or destroyed or lost. But instead, they survived.”
I point to a picture on the wall purchased at a garage sale. It is dated 1867. “Now that’s an antique,” I boast. “Over one hundred years old. Of course, it is marked up and scratched and not in very good condition. Sometimes age does that,” I tell Jenny. “But the marks are good marks. They show living, being around. That’s something to display with pride. In fact, sometimes, the more an object shows age, the more valuable it can become.”
For a moment Jenny looks thoughtful. “You are my antique,” she says. Then her face brightens. “Could I take you to school for show-and-tell?”
Jenny’s antique lifts her up and embraces her in a hug that will last through the years.
Harriet May Savitz
Sandwich Generation
Children have more need of models than of critics.
Joseph Joubert
I am a member of the “sandwich generation.” I’m forty-two, my children are fifteen and twelve, and I visit my eighty-two-year-old debilitated mother three to four times a week.
Widowed, she lives alone in her condo six miles from my home. She no longer drives and is dependent on others for transportation and social activities. I get very bogged down running two households. I’m either taking her to my home for a visit, to the grocery store or for a haircut, or I’m driving her around with me on my errands just to get her out of the house. She appreciates very much every small thing I do for her and tries hard to understand my busy schedule.
One particularly hot Texas day in July, I was driving my daughter from one errand to another when I realized I was running behind—again—and needed to call Mom and tell her I would be late picking her up. As I sped down the road, I called her on my cell speakerphone. I
told her we were coming by to get her but that we were behind schedule. Her Irish lilt filled the car. “I’ll be ready whenever you come.” Then we ended our conversation with our daily, “I love you. See you soon.”
As I hung up, my precious twelve-year-old said, “I was just imagining that I was you and that my daughter was sitting next to me in the car and we were talking to you, the grandma, on the phone.” I was stunned. My prayers were being answered. As hard as it is sometimes, with all the running and juggling schedules, I am modeling something for my children after all, teaching them that nothing matters more in this world than the time we spend with those closest to us.
Yes, I may very well be old, one day, and all alone. I hope my daughter will then say, “I love you. See you soon.”
Tricia Short
Secret Weapon
Life affords no greater responsibility, no greater privilege, than the raising of the next generation.
C. Everett Koop
In 1965, when I was a little girl, my family moved to a picturesque neighborhood in Pennsylvania. We were stunned to find a petition had been circulating to bar us from settling there. The neighbors, upon learning that a family with seven kids was elbowing its way into their territory, feared the worst. Perhaps they had envisioned seven times the mischief—churned-up flowerbeds, battered mailboxes, their sleepy lives unraveled by gleeful shrieks of children peppering cars with rocks and tripping up the elderly.
The petition was denied.
And so we moved into the colonial-style house, my parents’ first home after fifteen years of transitioning from one army housing complex to another. What a luxury it was, owning a brick structure with two stories that we did not have to share with other families. The backyard, stretching on for what seemed like miles, tugged at my exploring spirit.
As one month flowed into the next, the neighbors held their breath. Finally, there was a collective sigh of relief as they began to see that their world would remain intact after all.