The Man with the Cane

I've been thinking about Grandpa Hershey the last while more than usual.

It was Grandpa that I first remember teaching me about the stars. Him and Grandma were visiting for the weekend, and I'm fairly certain candy came with them that time as well. Grandpa had a terrible sweet tooth and believed everyone else did too. When we visited them, there was often a bowl of old fashioned candy ribbons on the table. I've loved that kind every since then.

Grandpa was sitting in dad's old brown recliner and I was hanging over the arm looking at a book with him. I don't remember the book, but I remember the question.

“Which is brighter: the sun, the moon, or the stars?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“The sun of course!” I replied, believing it to be a perfectly ridiculous question.

“Nope,” he grinned. “Its the stars.”

I didn't believe him.

“But they're so small!” I stated with big eyes.

“They look small, but that's because they're further away from the sun. If you could travel to a star, you would die before you got there because they're very, very hot.”

“Really?!” I stared at him trying to judge if he was teasing like he sometimes did.

“Yup. They're bigger than the moon or the sun.”

For some reason, right then and there, I believed him. Some time later, I learned in school that he was right. It wasn't a new fact. I read it and shrugged my shoulders because I already knew that.

Living here in Guadalupe where the stars are more alive and more numerous than at home, I stare at them still; amazed that something so fierce can cause such a tranquil feeling when so far away. They probably seem more numerous because they're not competing with the airplanes that constantly flew over our house. (I remember the first time I thought I saw a falling star. Excited, I ran to my sister and pointed it out to her. With three words she crushed me hopes. “That's an airplane.” Now even when I see a falling star, I question it until I know for sure.)

Living here in Mexico is probably the reason I've been thinking about Grandpa more. It was Grandpa that taught me how to pronounce the Spanish “n” and I think of him almost every time I read it. He loved Spanish and he was happy to hear that I was trying to learn it in school when I was less than 10 years old. He was more than helpful with my studies when he visited and enjoyed helping me more than I enjoyed being helped.

Grandpa loved to tell stories from Guatemala and driving through Mexico to get there with his tribe of a family in a bus, a van, or some other vehicle. He loved telling stories in general and he was good at it. When he'd finish an interesting one, he would have the biggest grin on his face as his hand gently slapped the table in front of him and the chuckle that issued forth was enough to make you laugh even if the story didn't. I loved listening to him, but hearing about Mexico and Guatemala were my favorites. He corresponded by letter with a friend in Spanish and the fact that he was able to understand and communicate like this intrigued me.

Grandma told me how one summer a Guatemalan family spent the summer with them in Wisconsin. There were seven children in their family, and Grandma still had at least nine of hers at home yet. She shook her head as if it were yesterday when she told me how much food they prepared every day for one meal. Then she sighed over the lunches they packed for all the men and boys who went to the woods with Grandpa every day.

Grandpa.

His library used to bore me. I avoided the backroom because all those books intimidated me. A year or two before he died, I found myself in his study looking at his books. I soon found one and started reading, but wasn't able to finish before we had to leave. Grandma said I could take it home with me. It was old; the pages were thin, the writing faded in places, and the smell when one put their nose deep into it's depths was intoxicating. It became a favorite of mine. When that book was finished, I couldn't wait to visit again so I could find another. This was the start of borrowing stacks of books from Grandpa for a few months at a time. Once, I found a small little thing that looked sort of new when compared to the rest of the books on the shelves whose titles were so faded on the binding one had to open the book to see what it was about. This particular book was a book of the best writings by A.W. Tozer. I don't know why I grabbed the book to take home. I knew nothing about the author or what was inside because the title didn't explain much, but I'm so glad I chose it that day. That book changed me life. And I enjoy reading anything of Tozer ever since. I've especially enjoyed the books of Tozer found in Grandpa's library as I discovered he had more than one. I particularly like reading them since he died. You see, I discovered that Grandpa didn't just read books. He read them. And he wrote in them whether he agreed, disagreed or thought the text needed to be expounded on a little more. It's like having Grandpa back in a small little way. There is one thing that makes me smile; Grandpa thought Tozer needed to be corrected and challenged some times! (And no, I don't believe Tozer perfect in his writings.)

Grandpa. He's part of the reason I'm here today. I wish I could tell him about it. He took my dad to Mexico and Guatemala who in turn took his children to Mexico as well because he loved it.

My dad learned how to ride bicycle in Guatemala.

I'm learning how to make tortillas. Among other things.

The Take Off

I was never more aware of my heart than that moment on that day.

As the plane taxied away from the gate, I looked our through the rain streaked window. The last few days had been filled with goodbyes that made my heart ache from the weight of each one.

Just thirty minutes prior to this one, my hands had been held my my parents as daddy prayed a farewell blessing over me.

He's always done that, you know. The family would load the luggage and after each one had their turn of forgetting something and running into the house at the last minute, before daddy would put the van in reverse, or at the end of the driveway, he would call us to prayer. When the family stopped traveling all together, daddy would still pray over us. Especially as Sara and I started traveling on our own. He would get up early with us, carrying our suitcases down the stairs, say goodbye, and pray.

This time though at the airport, with my hand in his, tears escaped down my cheeks and dripped off my chin.

I have always loved the feel of my dad's rough, calloused hands. I used to judge other men by their hands because I though only good men had hands like my dad and grandpas. Now I know better and don't judge according to that now, but there are times when I still think of it. Calloused hands will always remind my of daddy.

My left hand was held in my mother's soft hand. I've always wished my small, pudgy hands were more like her slender ones. When I was younger, I would watch her hands in wonder. Her nails were always clean even though they were not afraid of dirt and in fact loved loved it. Her nails were always always nicely trimmed. I would try to trim mine just like hers so maybe they'd look more alike, but I could never find a resemblance. Except in our thumbs. I inherited that part of my mother's hands, and I think of her every time some one exclaims over them.

I turned my face away from the window and the rain. The take off set me back in my seat and adrenaline from the moment and the adventure ahead coursed through my blood.

I smiled and talked my heart into a regular pulse again at the same time choking back the tears again.

I knew tears might flow some time again, but for now, I let the window weep.