By Judy Goldman
I grew up on a farm in the heart of central New Jersey. We lived in a quiet, rural area. It wasn’t that bad, though. Being on a farm had its advantages, although it wasn’t really much to speak of, as farms go. My grandparents aging seemed to be inversely proportional to the number of animals we had. During this particular December, the chickens and goats were long gone and all that remained were three dogs and an ever-increasing number of stray cats that somehow managed to make their way to the farmhouse.
It was 1935. I was nine years old and elated to wake up to newly fallen snow, especially the week before the holiday. Momma and I got ready to trek through the snow to my grandparents home just across the little path, where we would spend Grandma’s birthday baking her sensational poppy seed cookies and apple cobbler.
Just as Momma and I dressed to bear the blast, the door swung open and Grandma staggered in; her right hand covered in blood. Chaos ensued as Momma helped her to the kitchen sink. I ran to where we kept medical supplies to get various bandages and scissors and caught the colorless, pained look on my Grandmas face. I was terrified.
While Momma bandaged the wound, I learned that Grandma thought she would surprise Grandpa by feeding the dogs so he wouldn’t have to go out in the snow. She cut her hand on the jagged edge trying to get the food out of the can.
In no time, the bandage Momma managed to wrap around Grandmas hand soaked through with fresh blood. Momma looked at me and whispered that the cut would need stitches. I donned my boots, other winter gear and headed out across the path to diplomatically tell my Grandpa what happened. I would have to help him get the car cranked and ready so we could take Grandma to the hospital on the other side of town.
I dreaded this. Grandpa’s driving always made me nervous. Momma used to say it was because he worried a lot. I knew how this news would impact his driving.
The fresh crisp air whipped its refreshing blasts at my face as I made my way up the path. It felt good, but could not override the nausea that hit me at the sight of the trail of bright crimson blood staining the stark white snow.
I prayed hard and found the words to tell Grandpa. Then I watched as he threw his winter jacket over one shoulder and ran down the icy stairs. He tried to steady his wrinkled, shaking hands and get the old Dodge to start in the bitter cold, growing more anxious with each failed attempt.
Finally, he crumbled forward over the hood, arms bent, head down. I worried that he had some type of attack, but then he opened the car door and began running down to the road; slipping and sliding on the ice and snow-covered ground. There was hardly anybody out, but Grandpa and I stood there on the side of the road hoping someone would come by. No one did.
Just then, an old pick-up came chugging along. Grandpa started waving his arms and the driver stopped right there, in the middle of the road. The biggest man I ever saw got out of the truck. He wore an old khaki jacket with patches on both elbows. He had no boots to cover his worn shoes. His long hair needed to be cut. And his skin was the darkest I had ever seen.
While Grandpa and this huge dark-skinned giant stood speaking in the snow, I plowed back to my house and helped Momma get Grandma. We turned her over to the men who helped her into the front of the pick-up. My grandfather got in too and closed the door, and the truck drove off. My grandparents made it to the hospital okay. They fixed up Grandmas hand and this story was said and done; until Christmas time seven years later.
A few months earlier my aunts and uncles chipped in for a special 50th wedding anniversary gift for my grandparents. They redid the inside of the old farmhouse, making it easier for them to get around as they got older. They saved the last surprise for Grandmas birthday; a brand new washing machine.
The burly man struggled getting the machine through the doorway, but managed to set it down gently, with one final grunt. He then turned to Grandpa and asked him if he remembered him. Grandpa apologized, but said he did not recognize the man. The stopped man stood to his full height. He removed his cap and told about how seven years earlier, he drove down the very street we lived on. He had just been accused of stealing from the company he worked for. He was not guilty, but he had been drinking with a few of the other workers. It was one of the other men who stole the money, but nobody came forward with the truth. Even though it was just before Christmas, his boss refused to pay him for the two weeks he had coming to him and fired him on the spot.
The man continued his story, telling how he was on his way home to tell his family, when he saw a man on the side of the road with a little girl by his side. He directed the rest of the story to all of us. He told us about how Grandpa had blessed him that day for helping him and Grandma get to the hospital.
He concluded, by saying that less than a month after stopping here seven years ago, his entire life turned around. Alcohol was no longer a problem for him. He landed this wonderful job with a new company, where he had been promoted twice already. And, he was scheduled for a third promotion next month to assistant manager. His new boss loaned him the money to get his youngest sons leg worked on by a real doctor at a real hospital and now his son was able to walk again.
And, he had just recently become a grandpa himself. Twin boys.
He clasped my Grandpas old hand in his big dark one, wished him and all of us happy holidays, tipped his hat, smiled a toothy grin, and made his way back to his truck, down the path to the road.
Judy Goldman is a freelance writer from Wyoming, Pennsylvania.
Published in U S Legacies Magazine December 2005
- Log in to post comments