This is Humanity
Bright light floods the south facing window. Red solo cups line the sill, hiding the faded and warped wood beneath. Each cup of onion seedlings looks like grass, tall and lush. Little empty seeds hang on to the tops of each leaf. The peppers are nothing but cups of soil, slow to germinate, slow to grow.
The glass refracting outdoor rays makes it hard to believe it's 14F degrees outside, but that's February in Wisconsin. Truthfully, I have grown to be cold hardy. Food has pulled me into a comfortable relationship with the cold. If I zoomed out I would say I eat seasonlly, if I zoomed in I would say I eat with the weather. Cold, dark mornings lead me to a pot of simmering oats on the stovetop. Hot, summer afternoons sends me in search of cucumbers and tomatoes within tangled vines. I'm not legalistic in my eating habits, but eating with a consciousness of my environment does increase my overall satisfaction with the meal. Chili feeds the soul on a crisp, autumn day. Chili on a muggy summer day feeds the stomach.
We are in a battle between freeze and thaw and today freeze prevails, but the sun is shining and I feel like a pinball machine with new energy boucing through my body.
I grab an orange out of a wire basket on the table. Since it's organic and unwaxed, I carefully peel the skin and lay it to dry on paper towels. After drying for a couple days, I will crush the skins up, seal them in a jar and sprinkle them atop cranberry bars or over beets.
I slice into the naked orange and peel the sections apart. One by one, I savor each slice. I can't help but close my eyes. This is the absolute best orange I've ever tasted. If these were the kind of oranges that filled empty stockings in the 1800's, I now understand why folks were so excited to be gifted a tropical fruit.
Oranges make me think of my grandpa. He is at the end of his life now, 86 years old, in hospice care. He always said that oranges were his secret to getting through alcohol withdrawals. He would slice up oranges, peel away the skins, separate each segment and leave them to sit for a few hours. I'm not exactly sure why, but the oranges would almost crystalize and end up tasting sweeter just from sitting out. That was his snack while he sweated through his clothes and shook uncontrollably in response to not having alcohol in his system.
My grandpa is a heavily flawed individual. I think we all could probably think of someone in our life who fits that bill. Being flawed does not stop me from loving him, but I can achowledge, he has problems bigger than anyone could ever help him overcome.
The compliment I am most proud of that my writing ever received was from my college literature professor. The first assignment he gave us was to write about anything. 300 words. I decided to write about my grandpa. When I received my paper back, in big bold letters he wrote "This is humanity!" Next to that was an A+
Capturing humanity in a raw, real way, is important to me. Although this is a bit different from my usual posts, I hope you read it.
Below is that very assignment I wrote when I was 18 years old.
Tucked away in the corner of the room, closest to the bathroom, sat an older man. His round glasses slid down his nose, but he didn’t bother fixing them as he flipped through the pages of The Tribune. Once in awhile, he exchanged a few words with the other regulars. A chuckle echoed throughout the bar as he cracked a joke. He smiled up at the bartender and without a word of direction, she filled up his glass with his usual--vodka on the rocks. Clear venom splashed over the ice cubes and slowly slid down the side of the cloudy glass. I watched intently as my grandpa lifted his scabbed bar elbows and reached for his full drink. The dim lights of P’s and Q’s bar cast a grey shadow on his red face, but his smile shined through.
I slid into the familiar bar stool beside my grandpa and waited patiently for him to realize that his granddaughter was sitting next to him. My grandpa is far from senile, maybe a little near-sighted, far-sighted, and buzzed, but not senile. Seconds passed by and I wondered how he came to this point-- sitting at a bar, alone, unaware his granddaughter was next to him.
Thirty years ago, my grandpa was unattached to the bottle. He was known for his wits and savviness. He traveled around the world as an airline pilot. He turned a set of blueprints and a dream into a successful restaurant. He expanded, and his one restaurant multiplied into five. He had a beautiful wife, and four, healthy children. He bought himself and his family the lake house they always dreamed of and his own private plane so they could fly there anytime they wanted. He bought Cub’s season tickets behind the dugout, but never attended a game. He bought himself a 1969 Corvette, just to look at. Newspaper articles praising his accomplishments frequently popped up in the paper. His life was once a success story.
My grandpa has never told me exactly why he started drinking. The car accident that killed my uncle, his son, when he was 19 years old, could be the reason. Maybe it's not for me to know or tell. But, somewhere in between drinks, my grandpa’s life fell apart.
What I never understood was my grandpa’s contentment. He sipped his drink and read his paper in complete tranquility. It was as if he knew his life was once good and he accepted that it could not have lasted forever.
He held onto his wife and Cub’s tickets without giving up his drinking hand. He sold his plane, his Corvette, his restaurants. It all gave him more money to play with in the stock market. He downsized from a five bedroom, brick, home to a modest condo in Palatine, walking distance from his favorite bar.
Amidst my thoughts, The Tribune lowered, and uncovered my grandpa’s glassy eyes. His mouth slowly curled into a smile.
“What a good kid!” He exclaimed. “Visiting your grandpa!”
“I have to make sure you’re still alive, Grandpa.” I laughed and leaned into his open arms for a hug. His old, cotton flannel had a permanent smell of aftershave and alcohol.
“I’ll live forever or die tryin!” he scoffed.
I sat and humored him with talk about college, The Cubs, the family. He smiled and sipped his drink like water the entire time.
I checked my phone for any missed calls and caught him staring at me in wonderment, or amusement it seemed.
I slid my phone back into my purse and turned the barstool back towards him.
“What are you staring at, Grandpa? Admiring the good looking grandkid you made?” He smacked me on the shoulder and laughed.
His smile slowly unfolded and became solemn.
“I don’t have to be worried about you, Kid,” he stated. “I know you’ll be fine.” He tuned his voice into a soft whisper and leaned in closer, as if he didn’t want the rest of the bar to hear his secret. “Don’t let success be your curse.” He gave me a wink as he gulped down the rest of his drink. At that moment, I had never learned more from my grandpa.
