Wednesday, February 14, 2001
|
Wednesday, February 14, 2001 |
| What
love is all about By
SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE A Valentine arrived in the mail recently, courtesy of Carol Bligh, who gave us permission to publish it. It was written by Carol's eldest son, Greg, in 1998 after he helped move her mother into a retirement facility. June Palmer Bennett had lived for 84 years, 10 as a widow, in the Trucksville, Pa., house where she was born. Greg, a director of intelligence technology in the project management office of Mirant Corp., left the letter for his grandmother to find when he moved her heavy oak Tudor-style dining suite back to his own home in Peachtree City, where it continues to host family and friends.
Dear Grandma, There are times in life when I think I'm all "growed up," and something happens that makes me feel extremely immature. This is one of those times. I should be able to express my thoughts to you face-to-face, but I know that I would break down. Even though this is the '90s and it is acceptable for men to show their emotions, I am still in many ways "old world," and feel it wouldn't be right for a 35-year-old man to melt into an emotional puddle in front of his grandmother. A long time ago, 20 years at least, we came to your house for one of the holidays, either Thanksgiving or Christmas, I can't remember. What I do remember was a table packed with food and surrounded by relatives. Then something happened, in less than a second, yet I will never forget it. I was walking in from the living room. Grandpa was standing behind his chair; you were bringing something to the table from the kitchen, you set it down at your end of the table, you looked his way, and he threw you a wink. It could have been innocent, it may have meant something, I don't know. But it was at that instant that I put together the whole love-life-family connection. I started understanding the pride Grandpa must have felt to have his wife, daughters, their husbands and a gaggle of grandchildren all sitting around his table. That moment planted itself into my soul and put down deep roots. Right then I knew I had figured out one of the key meanings of life. Some memories I have of that table: I played games with Great-grandma at it ... l was very disturbed by the silence at a table that was usually brimming with activity after Great-grandma's funeral. ... I fought with my brothers for the seat of ultimate honor (next to Grandpa) ... I jumped out of my chair when Grandpa announced we were going to Harvey's Lake after dinner ... I beat Grandpa at checkers on that table and was glorious in victory, and then got miffed a couple years later when I knew he was letting me win (no adult could miss that many open moves!). ... I sat in the seat closest to the secretary after Grandpa's funeral, the same seat I fought over as a boy, lost in my own thoughts, my soul absolutely crushed to see you sobbing ... I did my kindergarten homework at it when Mom and Dad were in Germany ... I held the hand of my high school sweetheart under it so nobody would see and I held the hand of my wife on top of it, not caring who saw ... I hurriedly excused myself from it when my cousins were youngsters and I gravitated to it this past Christmas to talk with my now grown-up cousins. ... I ate there with my beautiful wife and my two precious girls, a scene I couldn't even have imagined 10 years ago. Over the coming years we will experience a lot more of the love-life-family connection at that table. It is inevitable that we will eat as we grieve over the news of deaths, and we will eat as we rejoice over the news of births. There will be dinners with family and dinners with friends. I hope the moments of laughter and happiness will outweigh the moments of sorrow and pain. The table will see interrogations of young men who cross my threshold, interested in entertaining my daughters. We may be sitting there eating a meal when Jessica [11] or Rebecca [8] announces an engagement or pregnancy. Maybe my grandchildren will fight over who gets to sit next to me. And maybe if I am blessed enough to go around the sun a couple of dozen more times, my girls will be at my house and my table for Thanksgiving, with their husbands and children, and one of my grandchildren will spy the wink I try to sneak at Kim across a table full of commotion, and that grandchild will understand the whole love-life-family connection. And maybe that one will inherit the table and I can tell him or her what it has meant to me during my life, and then they can start building their own memories. I keep telling myself, "It's just a table, just a thing," but in reality it is a physical extension of my soul. I promise I will take good care of the furniture. The pieces will live in a nice big room, in a house brimming with love and happiness, very much like the house from which they came. I'm sure they will be very happy, and so will l. Love, Greg
|
