Grandma’s Story
by Edy Blamires, age 15
“How would you like to help me bring flowers to a friend of mine today?” were some of the first spoken words that greeted me on Saturday morning.
My grandma was sitting in her blue felt rocking chair, arms folded contentedly in her lap, one leg crossed over the other. She was a very lively grandmother for a 72-year-old woman. Her hair reflected this perfectly and was still the same as in every photo I had ever seen of her over the years: soft brown hair in a tiny afro on top of her head. She was a very kind and caring woman, and she had a distinct laugh that made a person feel right at home. She had spent her career as a kindergarten teacher, and it was no wonder that she had such a collection of gifts from those she taught. Students and parents alike had loved her, and she loved them back; every little trinket from pins and necklaces to Christmas ornaments was kept and cherished.
Early morning sunlight was filtering through the blue curtains and blinds into the dim living room, and it was silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the rattling strings from the overhead fan. This was my grandparent’s home and I was visiting for the weekend. Its environment was soothing and familiar, and I was comfortable enough to say yes to any activity.
From further explanation, I learned that the friend Grandma was talking about was named Joyce, that she had a husband named Charlie, and that the two of them had been very good friends with my grandparents for many years. I did not know them at the time, but I would learn to love them from that first short meeting we had when I was seven years old. I readily assented and Grandma and I soon got in the car for a quick trip to Walmart.
The Walmart parking lot was, as usual, filled with colors and sounds of all kinds: the screeching wheels and loud crashing of shopping carts as employees shoved rows of them into their places, the abrupt movements of cars trying to leave their parking spaces and the families hurrying to get past them, the light glinting off of windshields and the occasional reckless driving of big trucks leaving the place. And yet, through all of this, Grandma somehow saw someone that no one else seemed to see.
“Do you see that woman over there?” she asked, pointing across the parking lot. I craned my neck to peer over the top of the car door. There was indeed a woman standing near one of the store’s entrances. She had on a plain, baggy T-shirt and capris and wore her hair in a bun on top of her head. In her hands was a cardboard sign that had been painted with large block letters.
“Yes,” I said, and watched as Grandma rummaged through her purse. She found what she was looking for and turned around in her seat to hand me the five-dollar bill.
“I want you to go give this to her.” I took it without complaint, but I was getting nervous. I would have to get out of the car and walk across that busy parking lot on my own to hand that woman the money, and I did not like to talk to new people.
I opened the car door, hopped down onto the cracked asphalt, and walked straight to the woman. I decided it would probably be okay if I just got the task done, so I mustered up enough courage to hold the money out to her without saying a word. She took it with gratitude and kissed my hand. I could see now the tears welling up in her eyes.
“God bless you,” she whispered in a gentle, singsong voice, and looking back now, I can see that behind the image of her poverty, she was a woman of elegance and forbearance, patience and kindness. Though I was too young to understand this then, she was a person. A person like me.
I hurried back to the car and climbed in, greatly relieved that the scene was over. Grandma was laughing, as Grandma would. Curious, I asked her why the woman had needed that money. She said that she either couldn’t make any money or that she couldn’t get enough and that she needed that money to support her children. I don’t know if I fully considered then how much that money could have helped her, but I can still clearly remember the look of immense gratitude in her eyes when I showed her that simple act of kindness.
Walking through the busy store, we came to a tall stand of flowers dyed with bright colors. Orange, blue, and purple towered over me like a parade float, mixed and scattered here and there to make the appearance of an elaborate dance. They smelled sweet and fresh and the orange flowers being the least fake-looking, I took a bouquet of those when Grandma asked me to choose a color for Joyce. Even then, I had a distaste for the natural being turned into the artificial. I held them up with a sense of pride as we exited the store, even though the bouquet was twice the size of my face and I had to keep moving it to see where I was going. Still, I was doing something that Anne Shirley might have called heroic and romantical back in her day: I, a little seven-year-old girl, was doing something for a grown-up!
We went straight to Joyce’s house when we left the store and we were soon taking in the dry, dusty, Arizona air once more as we waited on the doorstep. But it wasn’t long before we were brought into her living room. The first thing I noticed about the house was the fish tank: it was by the back door, bubbling loudly. Joyce was sitting in an armchair on one side of the living room and her husband, Charlie, on the other. I could tell by glancing at them that they were a happy set of people. Joyce looked like just the kind of person who would be friends with my grandma, for her countenance suggested that she was just as kind and caring, and there was also a sense of contentment and bravery that seemed to radiate from her. Charlie was a cheerful-looking man, and I liked him. He seemed quiet, but quiet was perfect for me.
Joyce and Charlie were happy to see us and the sight of them made me happy too. Grandma greeted them with the same excited “Hellooo!” that she greeted many people with, and the three of them talked together for some time. Grandma then asked me to give the flowers to Joyce. I stood next to her as she took them and then with a smile, she said, “Thank you! How did you know that orange was my favorite color?”
I left their home feeling like I had just accomplished an important mission because that was exactly what I had done.
My grandma did not know how much this experience would impact me in my life when she started the morning with that spontaneous question and neither did I know just how much I would learn from it. Those seconds I spent with the woman on the street have somehow taught me to look past the barrier of a glance and try to see deeper into the true characters of my fellow beings. Joyce and Charlie taught me gratitude in times of trouble and my grandma taught me what true charity is. Though these lessons took many years to learn, I can look back on this experience as being crucial to their development. That day would later teach me that oftentimes the most important missions are the simple acts of kindness and that whether they be a five-dollar bill or orange flowers, their effects can be great, not only on those they are done by, but on ourselves as well.
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Image is in the Public domain.
