MY GRAMPA IS TALL AS TREES

illustration by Auset (Marian Lewis)

a story for all ages

for Forrester Lee, my father

            My Grampa is tall as trees.Tough as tigers.  Big as bears.  

             Ever since we came to live with Grampa, and ever since Gramma took off her apron and went up to heaven, and ever since Mama started a cookie factory and brought home cookies almost as good as Gramma‘s, and ever since I learned to ride my tricycle all the way to the third house next to the prickly bush, Grampa and I have been together everyday.

            Grampa’s eyebrows are big as clouds, and his wink is quick as lightning.  Only I am fast enough to catch it. 

He always winks when Mama makes a fuss.  She tries to make him wear the new sweaters she buys him.  The ones without the holes.  Or make me wear dresses and ribbons in my hair.  I love mama more than biscuits and eggs with the juice running out.  But Grampa is tall as trees. 

In the morning I can smell cinnamon and coffee. The coffee is my mama.  Grampa smells like cinnamon.  I jump downstairs and try to rattle Grampa’s china in the china closet, race through the room where no children are allowed, run into the kitchen and hop on Grampa’s knee.  Without one word. 

And I sit and watch him read from the big black book.  I know he’s talkin’ to God.

I stay quiet as church mice.

 “In a minute, Sister,” says Grampa.

            I don’t have a brother or a sister, but Grampa calls me “sister.”  Then in a minute, as long as it takes for Mama to get ready for church, I count the number of nicks in Grampa’s cane.  And after as long as it takes for stone to turn to dust and back to stone again, Grampa clears his throat.  “Hrmmmph!” and says, “Mornin’, Sister.”

 

            And I say back, “Mornin’, Grampa.”  And without one word I put his two teaspoons of honey in his peppermint tea and he pours my orange juice and puts milk on my cereal.  And so the day begins.

            Sometimes we take long walks and talk to trees and try not to step on cracks.  Grampa tells me stories about the army ants that ate up a whole village of people.  Just mowed down everything in sight.  Millions of ‘em.  We sit under trees and wonder what they would say if they could talk.

            Grampa has two suits.  One is for Sunday.  The other he never wears.  He says he’s saving  it for when he goes up in heaven to see Gramma and have an important meeting with God.  In the meantime, he wears baggy overalls with lumpy pockets full of gum, his tobacco pouch, and a gold watch with a broken chain.  Mama always tries to get Grampa to fix the chain.  She fusses about my overalls which are brighter and stiffer than Grampa’s and tries to put ribbons in my hair.  I love Mama better than the honey apple raisin cakes from her bakery.

But Grampa is tall as trees.

            One night there was a big storm and all the lights went out.  It thundered and lightninged and something bigger than Grampa shook the earth.  Grampa said God was bigger than thunder and lightning, and some people thought that when it stormed, God was angry.  But Grampa said it was just his way of reminding us that He is still here.  Grampa says that God is old as dust, quicker than lightning, bigger than bears, and better than a bushel of honey apple raisin cakes WARMED WITH BUTTER.

            I think.  But Grampa is tall as trees.

            That night the big dogwood tree fell down in the front yard from the storm, and we didn’t have light for longer than a minute.

            Mama, Grampa and I lit candles and made shadow pictures on the wall and told ghost stories.  I was too happy to be afraid.  But I let God know I was thinking about Him.  I said a prayer.  I just told Him, “Thank you, Amen.”

            Then one day I woke up and didn’t smell the cinnamon or the coffee.  I ran downstairs and didn’t even try to rattle Gramma’s china in the china closet, raced through the room where no children are allowed, and went into the kitchen to jump on Grampa’s knee.

            But Grampa wasn’t there.

            Mama was in his chair holding the big black book and crying.  She told me that Grampa was ready to put on his suit and go up to heaven with Gramma to meet God.  She said we could see Grampa one more time and that he would be still as stone.  (That is stiller than even big people can be still and stiller than I can sit on Grampa’s knee after he says “In a minute.”)

            Then we both cried for a long time.  And we cried for many days after that when we’d think of Grampa and how we missed him.  But then Mama and I would smile and think of the thunderstorm and the animal shadows on the wall and Grampa’s sweater with the holes.

            Now I can ride my tricycle past the prickly bush all the way to Mr. Hammond’s house and watch him cut the hedges.  Mama’s going to get me a bicycle with training wheels.  And they finally came to carry away the old dogwood tree that fell in the storm.

            Now I talk to God even when there is no thunder to remind me.  I say, “Thank you, God, for Mama, and Grampa and Gramma, who are with you, and my new friend, Mr. Hammond, and my brand new bicycle with the training wheels.  Amen.”

            And if I’m still -- almost Godstill -- stiller than when I sat on Grampa’s knee after he said, “In a minute, Sister”, I can hear Grampa smile and say, “Good Mornin’, Sister.” 

And I say back, “Good mornin’, Grampa.”  And Grampa is tall as trees.