Mementos

I parked out front under the old tree, which dropped heavy balls of sap onto any car daringly parked underneath. It was hot, and in an attempt to dress well I wore a sweater, so I didn’t want to walk more than a couple of feet. On the drive over my brother warned me about what I was walking into. Him and I like to do that for each other, because neither of us are fond of surprises. He told me the last time he was there that my grandfather offered to give him a book; not just any book, but his pick of a book. I gasped. “You’re kidding.” I said. “No I’m not.” he replied, “It was a very serious gesture,” he continued. My brother and I have always wanted to walk away from this house with a memento of some kind. My mother’s parents are both dead so the only grandparents we have are on our father’s side. My grandmother was a ceramist, until she started losing her vision. I’m convinced that’s where all of my brother’s artistic inclinations come from. My grandfather was a surgeon. He is internationally respected and to this day travels and gives seminars. My brother and I are slightly intimidated by both of them, but then again who wouldn’t be?

We opened the gate and squeezed through the ungenerous amount of space it offered, which led us to the cement staircase that you walk down to get to the front door.  It’s always been that way. No one has ever bothered to shave the cement below the gate so it could swing open to its full potential. My grandmother swung the door open. “Hello!” She yelled in her melodic tone that was always slightly too loud. “Hi Grandma.” We said in unison. The house was redolent of cedar chips and llama wool grandma used to collect from her llamas to make scarves. She breeds them, sheers them, and we all have received a gift made from them at one point or another. My grandpa walked over. “Well hello Nicole” he said, “What a nice surprise.” I don’t make it out there too often. He looked softer than usual. He’s a magnanimous man, tall with thin white hair on the sides of his head. His attire tends to be monotonous, and today wasn’t unusual. He wore a wool sweater, possibly made from llama, beige trousers and brown leather shoes. He is congenitally conservative, if that’s even possible. His hands, which tend to rest comfortably in his pockets, reached out exposing his rather large wingspan. He wrapped them around me. I glanced back at my brother; he was right, today would be different. We sat down on the couch. One would think it would be less hard considering how old it is. I crossed my legs in different ways trying to find a comfortable position. My grandfather talked for quite some time. He told a remarkable story about a woman he once saved in 1965 from blood clots all over her body. There was mention of massaging her heart for ten hours even after all of the audacious surgeons thought she was dead. That combined with the five lovebirds in the corner chirping at an excruciatingly high pitch, made it hard to focus. One day I will find the “operative report” he wrote.  I looked at his posture, something about the way he rested his head back onto the slightly reclined chair as he spoke, made him seem warmer. I heard my phone beep a couple of times, which out of nervousness made me shift my weight back and forth in a less than subtle way. Grandpa hated being interrupted, although he somehow seemed unperturbed by the damn lovebirds. Maybe because they were my grandma’s, and he couldn’t possibly hate anything she loved so much. He was a doctor, and she was the crazy animal lady. They give validity to the saying “opposites attract”. Somehow they managed to love one another in the most seamless way. We have all questioned their unquestionable compatibility at one time or another, but it’s useless. Grandpa asked me if I wanted to see his cactus garden. Did he know about my love for cacti or was this something he showed to everyone? We walked with decorous space between us. I spotted an old birdcage along the way that I knew would fit into my backyard very well. In fact I’ve been frequenting Sunday flea markets looking for one. We ended up at his beautiful cactus garden, which was enclosed by rocks and shaped in a circle. There were little ceramic tiles laid in between each cactus adding just the right amount of color, which I later found out were extras from the mural my grandmother was asked to make for the San Diego airport back in the day. She was asked to do a lot of things that women didn’t do back in those days. It’s mind boggling that I’m somehow connected such a pioneer of a lady.

The next moment changed my entire relationship with my ninety one year old grandfather. He offered to cut off some pieces of his cactus so I could stick them in my cactus garden (I mentioned while walking that I had a cactus garden too). This man loves his cactus, and I knew instantly that my brother wouldn’t believe me if I told him. We started walking back towards the house. He is a deliberately slow walker, and very methodical in his steps. He told me another story, this one about a conversation he had with a cancer patient. He told this woman who seemed to be recovering, that she reminded him of a cactus, because even when faced with adversity, cacti survive. They are resilient. “They are survivors in the face of adversity, just like her.” He said. I tried to chime in by saying “Yea, they are also very forgiving, and don’t punish me for not nurturing them when I leave for long periods of time.” I chuckled at myself. We continued walking and right before we reached the patio door he said “Nicole have you ever been into my office?” The truth was I didn’t even know he had an office outside of the house. I remembered a shed that was “off limits”, but it had never been described as an office. I walked inside, and was immediately drawn to the books lining the walls. I suppose I was drawn to everything in there considering the room was only about 6 feet by 4 feet. It was a shoebox filled with everything I ever wanted to know about this man. Finally, it happened; he offered me a book. ‘”Would you like to take a book home?” he said. “You can have any book you want.” I was overwhelmed, and could only manage a smile. My eyes quickly landed on an old copy of “La Chute”, which is the French addition of “The Fall”, a book written by one of my favorite authors Albert Camus. “That’s my favorite book!” I told him. “I love Camus.” He said. “His style of writing has inspired many of my short stories.” (It’s safe to say my grandfather has written hundreds of short stories, manuscripts and articles, my favorite being “The Ode to Hummingbirds” which I will post later.)  Who knew we had so much in common? I left his office with three books. Between Man and Man by Martin Buber, The Greek Passion by Nikos Kazanizakis, and A Treasury of the Theater edited by John Gassner. The last was the one I was most excited about. There was a bookmark left holding the page of the last play he was reading. It was The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekov. I thanked him, we went back inside the house, and we had a bagel and cream cheese.

As my brother and I were leaving I took note of an award that was casually tacked to the wall in the most unsophisticated way. He won a ‘Marquis Who’s Who in America Award’ in medicine and healthcare. It was almost sweet to see something so prestigious, so discreetly displayed. This is very typical of my grandfather. He was not one to boast.  I told him he should put it in a frame. “Why?” he responded.  “Because it will get old and dusty and it will fade!” I said. “Well isn’t that what happens to all of us?” He said. I didn’t know how to respond to this remarkable man who may be old, but certainly wasn’t dusty nor faded. We hugged again, and he knocked my sunglasses off the top of my head, but instinctually caught them and placed them in my hand. “Bye grandma, bye grandpa, we love you!” My brother and I said. We started walking back up the cement stairs leading to my car. Grandpa said “Nicole when will we see you again?” “Soon!” I said, which is my staple response to that question. He smiled and nodded and started closing the door. “Ill see you in two and a half weeks, as soon as I get back, I promise,” I reassured him. He smiled again and closed the door. I meant it that time.

My brother and I sat in silence for two hours driving home on the Pacific Coast Highway. Between us, there was an effusion of silent yet warranted emotion. He mentioned a couple of times how beautiful the day was, while I wondered why I didn’t spend every Sunday driving to my grandparent’s house.