Grandpa woke me up this morning with a holler. "School is CANCELLED!!"
"Woo hoo!" I cried sleepily, and fell back asleep.
I got up at 8:30. The world outside was dreamy and still and covered in snow. My view down to the lake was obscured by a hushed gray wash. "I think you're snowed in today, sweetheart!" Gramps called. Yet he was bustling, putting on shoes and a jacket.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I have my haircut," he said.
"Gramps... Can't you reschedule? Our driveway's totally covered."
"Oh no, I've got to go!" he said, determined. "She made it in to work for me, so I've got to go! I'll just clear the driveway."
So we did, together: him with a wide broom, and me with a wide dust-bin, industriously clearing in my pajamas, snow boots, and an overcoat. Before he left, he gave instructions: "Now you dig out around your car, and pull it into the garage. I've got chains for my car, so I'll be fine." I watched him inch backwards up the steep driveway, making sure he cleared it. We waved goodbye at each other, and he headed off. As instructed, I swept the snow away from around my car, and pulled it into the garage.
I went down to the kitchen and made myself pancakes with Grandpa's waffle batter, left over from his elaborate breakfast from yesterday. He called at one point, seeing if I needed anything from the store. "How about popcorn?!" I asked. "That would be yummy on a day like today."
"Popcorn it is!" he said.
When he got home, gray hairs freshly trimmed, I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn't be able to get to the art store for Christmas-present-art-project supplies. He thought out loud about different driving routes I could try and then said, "Well. Why don't I just drive you."
So he did, taking us slowly and carefully through the covered, quiet streets: first to Kinkos, so that I could make copies for the art project, then to Blockbuster, where we picked out this movie, then on to the art store. Grandpa waited patiently while I made my selections, and helped when he had the opportunity. We chatted about many things, and wondered at the swirling flakes that floated ever more eagerly down. Stopped off at the grocery store on the way back, and got some crackers, wine, and Ghiardellis double-chocolate-chip brownie mix. When we got back home, he parked on the street below the house, leaving my Honda's cushy garage abode unrivaled. "Well. I'm glad I drove you," he said. "That way I didn't have to worry about how you were doing."
Back home, we made lunch: creamy tomato soup, and english muffins with ham and melted cheese on top. He told me about the story he's listening to on tape-- a gruesome crime mystery. After lunch, he took a nap, and I worked on my arts and crafts. He woke up just in time to catch me feeling very discouraged about the clumsy results.
"Sweetheart, I think they look wonderful!" he retorted.
I looked out at the snow and wished for a hand-hold, and began to feel a little heart-sick. I called to Grandpa that I was feeling awfully sad about things.
"Greta..." he said. "That's only natural." And he said kind things to ease the hurt.
Then he moved into stories about his trips to Europe with my Grandma. He told me about an amphitheater they had found in southern England that overlooked a cliff over the channel, and I began to forget about feeling sad. "Sweetheart, you'll just have to go there someday, " he said. "It was absolutely one of the most spectacular things I've ever seen."
Then he got out our cheese and crackers and drinks: wine for me, and gin for him. I moved to take a sip, and he said, "Wait wait!" Then finished pouring his. "Now. Cheers to the season." And we clinked glasses.
I cut my thumb trying to free the cheese from its plastic wrap. "Oh, oh, oh," he said, and whisked me upstairs. I thought again about the hand-hold, and felt heart-sick again, and I began to cry. I let Grandpa think it was because of my thumb, and he didn't comment. He put Neosporin on a band-aid, and layered it with a second one when blood started to seep through. "You take these band-aids down to your bathroom now and just use as many as you need. Because you know, you'll get your thumb wet, and you'll probably need another one."
Back in our kitchen nook, we watched the snow continue to drift down, and ate our cheese and crackers. I made the brownies, and he told me about his childhood in Eastern Washington.
Now he's making dinner, and afterwards we'll watch the 6:00 news, and then our movie, and then we'll watch "The Office." Grandpa will cringe at Michael Scott's antics and mutter things like, "He is just an idiot! The things he says!!" But he'll watch it with me anyway, because he knows I love it. When we go to bed, we'll holler goodnight, and when I wake up, he'll already be down in the kitchen and will have coffee ready for me.
I'm 24 years old. I know how to cook for myself, and make my coffee, and get myself a band-aid, and I bet I could even figure out driving in the snow if I needed to.
But Grandpa loves this. He loves taking care of me like this. And every time he does, I feel my heart getting bigger and growing softer in the dearest way. I wish I could express how much this man means to me.
