Since they were old enough to understand, I’d explained that my most valuable possession in the whole world was kept inside the secret box and that they could have it once I was gone. As a result, a trust had been forged between us – them, for not opening the treasure box with the secret inside; me, for protecting it until the day it was theirs.
We puttered around all day until the newspaper was delivered.
After fantasizing about seeing my own name in print, I realized that every once in a while, a simple story had the power to move people’s hearts. I felt blessed for such a rare opportunity and shared it with my attentive grandchildren.
~ THE DAILY TELEGRAM ~
A Benefit for Isaac
by Max Jacobson
At six months old, Isaac Brault was diagnosed with a very rare disease called mitochondrial disease with pyruvate dehydrogenises deficiency. With only a few hundred cases known worldwide, currently there is no cure for the degenerative neuromuscular disease that affects multiple systems in the body such as the heart, lungs, kidneys, vision, hearing, muscles and digestive system.
As a result of this disease, Isaac has suffered profound hearing loss, low energy, poor growth and very low muscle tone. He has difficulty holding up his head and sitting up.
“When he was a baby, Isaac’s muscles were so cramped that he couldn’t even straighten out his arm,” says his mother, Theresa (Delaney) Brault, a 1991 graduate of B.M.C. Durfee High School. “The acids in his body had reached deadly levels before the doctors diagnosed his disease correctly.”
“Tragically, some kids are dying early because similar diseases go undiagnosed,” she says. “There are grieving parents out there who believe their children have died of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome), but these babies actually suffered from a metabolic disorder. These kids look normal and only start showing symptoms at six to nine months of age. If Isaac had not been diagnosed early, he would have been one of those terrible statistics.”
Brault, an audiologist by trade, is very interested in bringing awareness to her son’s little-known disease. “Isaac is such a miracle kid,” she says. “He takes experimental, or research (not FDA approved) drugs called DCA that are only administered in a couple of hospitals around the world. Isaac receives his at the Children’s Hospital in Boston and the medication is definitely helping.”
Essentially, Isaac’s body cannot break down sugar and carbohydrates on its own. His medication helps to regulate his metabolism by breaking down those carbohydrates and sugars that would otherwise become toxins, poisoning his organs. In the end, the medication is also the only thing that gives him the energy he needs to get through each day.
Although he is nearly two years old, Isaac’s muscles are so weak that he can only roll over. “We’re hiring a therapist to come in and teach him how to crawl,” says Mom.
“Isaac’s deaf and we’re not sure if he’ll walk or talk, or even what his life span might be, but we do know how incredibly blessed we are for our family and friends – people who share both our tragedies and triumphs.”
Isaac’s grandmother, June Delaney, of Earl Street, says, “When Isaac was first born, he cried for nine hours a day. At first, the doctors thought it was acid reflux. Many tests were conducted and they quickly discovered he had a hearing problem. The doctors then thought it was Cerebral Palsy. Isaac wasn’t putting on any weight. And then they diagnosed his illness correctly.”
Although Isaac has problems holding up his head, requires a feeding tube and is confined to a wheelchair, he doesn’t let his disease get him down. He’s a very happy boy who is always smiling. According to those who adore him, he enjoys spending time with his family and especially playing with his three year-old sister.
Isaac and his family don’t take much for granted. Without question, the young boy is surrounded by the love and care that he needs. But much more is required, according to his family. Isaac needs financial assistance to help fund the medications and therapy that keep him smiling.
To help fund Isaac’s medical needs, the Brault Family is inviting anyone who’d like to help make a difference in Isaac’s life to attend an upcoming benefit dinner. A buffet of home-cooked delights will be served, while a DJ will spin a list of dance favorites. An autographed photo of Boston Red Sox player Trot Nixon, a signed Boston Bruins hockey puck, autographed books, as well as other special prizes will be raffled off to help earn money.
Isaac’s benefit dinner will be held on Saturday at the Liberal Club, located at 20 Star Street, Fall River, MA at noon. Tickets are $12 each and are available at the door. Donations are also accepted and appreciated (a tax ID # is available for larger donations).
“We’re hosting the benefit to help fund Isaac’s experimental medicine, the vitamins which help him retain his energy and to help set up his home as more handicap accessible,” says June Delaney, “things that would make for a better life for my grandson.”
Isaac’s family says they are grateful for all the support and compassion shown them.
I finished the article and thought, Wow! We really don’t have to look too far to see someone who has it worse. I looked up at the kids. “So, what are we gonna do about it?” I asked. “What are we going to do for Sir Isaac?”
“Help!” Madison answered and ran off to find the materials she needed to make the boy a card.
With Bella’s nod, we sent all we could, or at least enough money to get Isaac by for a month.
On the morning we mailed the card, I asked the kids, “How does it make you feel to help someone who needs it?”
“Really good,” Pudge said. Madison agreed.
“Remember guys, the most important thing in this world is to make sure you’re there for other people when they need you.” I winked at each of them. “Because someday, it might be you asking for the help. And when you put others before yourself, you might even forget about your own problems for a while.” Remembering my time at the Arizona dude ranch, I knew for a fact this was true.
“So, leave more than what you take…right, Poppa?” Madison asked.
“You’ve got it, kid!”
Chapter 12
A few long weeks of recuperation made me itch for the road. Bella and I always talked about buying an RV and traveling the country when I retired. The plan changed a little. The pretty leaves had long since fallen and the trees were now stripped to bare, bony limbs. Autumn was quickly turning into winter and the weather was starting to become foul. With the clock ticking faster than ever and Dr. Rice’s enthusiastic blessing, we decided to avoid the first snowfall and rent a motor home to travel the entire eastern seaboard all the way to the Florida Keys. The idea was to experience the open road and meet some real, flag-waving Americans along the way.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We spent an entire afternoon looking at used RVs and listening to the empty promises of an annoying salesman. Even though he pled, there was no way we could afford one of the massive forty-two foot diesel pushers, so we finally agreed on a thirty-six foot Winnebago. It was cream colored with splashes of green and brown covering both sides. With thirteen thousand miles on her, this non-smoking unit still smelled new and included every amenity you could imagine. In the galley – wood-style vinyl flooring, laminate counters, refrigerator, a three-burner range with oven, microwave, and a dinette booth that Bella thought was “darling.” There was a stained carpet in the lounge, with a TV, VCR and manual shades. Up front, there were leather captain’s chairs. A private bath with a shower was located toward the rear and a nineteen-inch television sat in the bedroom. Outside, a patio awning, satellite dish and cheesy external shower completed the package.
By the time we made our decision, I felt so sick and aggravated I was actually looking forward to haggling the price.
“For this beauty, you’re looking at eighteen hundred dollars a week, with five thousand down as a security deposit,” the salesman started.
“Eighteen hundred?” I said. “For a used RV?” Bella wa
lked away.
“Well, it’s pre-owned,” he said.
“So it’s used, then?”
“Sir, this baby has a Triton V10 310 hp under the hood and a one-hundred-twenty-gallon tank to get you and the Missus wherever you need to go.”
“Which means we’ll get eight miles to the gallon.” I glared at him. “I’m not sure you’re saving us any money with that pitch.”
“List price for this unit right now is seventy-four thousand nine hundred.”
“But I’m not looking to buy it, am I?”
He pulled at his collar. I was starting to get to him. “How many weeks do you need it for?”
“Four, maybe five.”
“Let me go talk to my manager and see what we can do.”
“I appreciate that.” As he headed for the showroom door, I called out after him. “Make sure you let him know that the carpet’s stained.”
He looked back at me for an extended moment, nodded once and disappeared into the building.
I looked over at Bella. She was still shaking her head. “We’re almost there,” I told her, pleased that I still had some real fight left in me.
My new friend reappeared five minutes later with their final offer. “Fifteen hundred dollars a week, with three thousand down.”
I called Bella over. “We have a deal,” I said and thought, We would have been just as happy in the thirty-footer, but what the hell.
We signed some papers, cut a check and were off on our next adventure.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’d placed a few more pieces into the puzzle when I looked up to find Bella standing in the doorway. “Ready?” she asked.
I nodded and put in another piece. “Looks like we’ll have to abandon the puzzle again for a while.”
“Not really. There’s another puzzle we can work on together.” She showed me two shoeboxes overflowing with family photos and a couple of empty scrapbooks.
I smiled, thinking, It’s gonna be a great trip. I carried the last of the luggage into the RV, along with a stack of paperbacks, hard covers and some audio books, and a full bag of rattling pill bottles.
The route had been mapped out days in advance: Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Connecticut by back roads. New York by way of the George Washington Bridge, down the New Jersey Turnpike, with a stop in Atlantic City. A leisurely pace through the Pennsylvania countryside and then we’d coast into Maryland. Washington D.C. was another stop and then Virginia where my old Army buddy, Cal Anderson, waited to put us up for a night. The plan included hopping from one diner to the next all the way down to the Florida Keys.
Bella made one last call to make sure Riley had all of our contact information. We kissed for luck and were on our way.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We made good time through Massachusetts and the postage stamp state known as Rhode Island. Our first stop in Connecticut was at a travel plaza, which was also known as a truck stop in my day. Though they welcomed RVs in a designated quiet zone away from the big rigs, I was more interested in the stainless steel diner located in the rear of the massive lot. This one had recessed lighting, lots of neon signage and a railroad-car-like roof. The bright red porcelain exterior and cream-colored lettering made me feel like a kid again.
As we walked through the front door, I spotted a plaque on the wall and pointed it out to Bella. Titled “The Ten Commandments,” it started out with “Thou shalt not worship golden arches” and ended with “Thou shalt not hang out and order nothing but coffee.”
We laughed, grabbed two stools at the counter and skimmed through a pair of sticky menus. “I don’t see any chicken parm,” she teased.
With the exception of Flo’s Clam Shack, I ate chicken parm whenever we went out. Bella was always trying to get me to try something new but I wouldn’t. Clam cakes, chicken parm, or anything on the menu at a greasy spoon was what I loved. For whatever reason, it didn’t matter what I ate at a diner; mushroom and cheddar omelets with pancakes swimming in butter and syrup; bacon cheeseburgers and fries with a coffee malt – either one finished off with a healthy slice of apple pie. And I had to have my apple pie. If the grandkids were around, I ate my veggies. But when they weren’t, I loved my junk food – even though Bella always gave me a hard time about it. I closed the menu and blurted, “I really do love these places.”
An old man sitting beside me nodded. “Me, too,” he said, thinking I was talking to him. He extended his wrinkled hand. “Name’s Ed.”
I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Ed. I’m Don.” I leaned back so he could catch Bella’s smile. “And this is my bride, Bella.”
“Nice to meet you both. So you like diners, do you?”
I nodded. Lorna, the counter waitress, took our order and walked away. Without being asked, the old man began a history lesson. “The word diner is short for dining car,” he said, “a kind of railroad car. That’s where they got their style.”
“I didn’t know that,” I fibbed, trying to make him feel good.
“Yep. Since diners became a part of the American landscape more than one hundred years ago, these old lunch wagons have touched millions of people.”
I nodded.
“After fast food places started to get popular in the 60s, diners tried to separate themselves from that image. A revival began in the late 70s and three diner builders started making them again in the old style. They called it a retro look – folks like us wanting to go back to the values of yesterday. Since then, diners have become popular places where people from all walks of life can share a home cooked meal and some friendly conversation.”
I nodded again, waiting for him to continue. But he didn’t. As abruptly as he’d begun, he was finished. The rest of the time was spent on comfortable small talk like the weather and baseball and devouring a couple of blue-plate specials – mine, more bland than I’d ever ordered.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Whenever we were parked, Bella and I worked on the scrapbooks. I finally understood the value of photographs.
When we were moving, she prodded me, “Tell me a story.” The funny thing is – although she’d heard them all a dozen times before, she never tired of my ramblings. As much as I loved telling them, she enjoyed watching me flail my hands around while I searched my memory and shared each vivid detail.
A few stories later, we were in New Jersey. We’d landed at another roadside restaurant where men and women of the road gathered for the taste of coffee and pie. There were lines of rigs parked out front, some drivers sleeping in the cabs. The lettering on the doors and lights in the grills were as unique as their owners. Theirs was a separate culture. I liked these people. I’d met hundreds of them at McKaskies and always considered them honest, hard-working folks. The stories of their lives were all unique, each offering a lesson from which we could all learn.
This diner had a barrel-shaped roof outside, with a long row of swiveling stools bolted to the floor inside. It was narrow; heavy with stainless steel inside and out. One look around revealed that it served unpretentious meals at reasonable prices. Best yet, it served breakfast at any hour of the day.
I grabbed for a menu when Bella whacked my arm and pointed at the menu. “It’s for sale,” she said.
“What’s for sale?”
“This diner.”
And then I saw it. The ad was on a separate sheet of paper floating inside the menu:
Built in 1949, Mom’s Diner was set up on Route 1 in Avenel, New Jersey and has operated here since. But we are ready to retire! Mom’s can accommodate nineteen stools at the counter, with ten booths for a total capacity of fifty-nine seats. The diner was remodeled seven years ago. Some of the renovations included replacement of the original stools and booths. As part of the sale, we are also including cabinets, pantry display case, juice machine, soda machine, coffee machine, the original refrigerator, and all fluorescent light fixtures. Only $36,000 in “as is, where is” condition! See the cook if you’re interested.
&nb
sp; I looked up to find an old man slinging hash. He was whistling a happy tune. Considering the place was over fifty years old, it was in remarkable condition. If only we could, I thought, and suddenly realized the future was no longer mine. Though I should have lived my entire life in the present, the future was the last place for me now. It was painful.
Bella must have watched the excitement drain out of my face. When I looked back at her, she was hiding behind her menu, sniffling. I didn’t say anything.
A brunette with the nametag, Jeanne, approached. “What’ll it be, folks?” she asked.
I looked at my wife. “Let me guess,” I said, “a poached egg and dry, wheat toast for me, right?”
She turned to the waitress and rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “I’ll have a blueberry muffin, grilled, and the big kid over there will have a mushroom and cheddar omelet, with a short stack of blueberry pancakes on the side.”
Smiling, the woman scratched the order into her pad and left us.
“Now that’s freedom,” I teased Bella.
She grinned. “You’ve been good. Besides, the pancakes have blueberries in them.”
Twelve Months Page 16