by Edward Fays
After a while the children and the staff got used to me being there. When the ball accidentally flew over the fence, I’d hustle over and toss it back to their side. A chorus of “Thanks, mister” sounded, and I felt like a part of their game.
Then winter came, and the pond and playground became an arctic wasteland. I still took the occasional stroll through the park, but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t have Italian bread with me and I didn’t have to retrieve a ball that was kicked too far. It was lifeless, and I longed for the springtime.
Finally it came—the sun burst forth, the flowers bloomed, and the pond and playground experienced a reawakening. The ducks and the children were back, and so was I. The kids remembered me and so did the faculty. One of the teachers, Ms. Santorini, asked if I’d like to volunteer at the orphanage and keep an eye on the children during recess and lunch period. “I would be delighted,” I said, with unabashed enthusiasm.
As we experience life, some doors close forever, remaining memories of our past, and new doors open, ready to provide us with fresh adventures that hopefully enrich our lives even further. And so a new chapter in my life began. After fifty years of being away, I stepped back into a classroom. The aroma of crayons and Play-Doh, the construction-paper cutouts adorning the walls, and the chalk dust rekindled the wonderful memories of my childhood.
As the children returned from playing outside I heard a few of them whisper, “That’s the man who gets our ball back for us. What’s he doing here?”
“Class, we have a new volunteer who’s going to join you during playtime,” said Ms. Santorini. “I’m sure many of you have seen him when you play outside.”
“Do you like kickball?” a little boy blurted out.
“Sure,” I said with a smile. “I love kickball.”
“Are you going to be here every day?” asked another boy.
“As long as that’s okay with Ms. Santorini,” I said, smiling.
“What do we call you?” asked another child.
One little girl with blond pigtails tied in frilly pink bows shouted out, “Can we call you Grandpa? We don’t have any grandmas or grandpas.”
And the kids in unison shouted, “Yeah! Can we, can we?”
My heart thumped in my chest as a surge of emotions swept through my body and my eyes bubbled with tears. I said, “Please. That would be perfect.”
And suddenly a new stage of my life revealed itself. Along with being a grandpa to my daughter’s children, I became a surrogate grandpa to more than thirty kids at the Lakeside Orphanage.
Inspired by DOMINIC TOWNSEND
The Wishbone
My grandma Rachel and I had just enjoyed a delicious lemon-herb chicken dinner complete with fat-free potato salad and a couple of diet cream sodas. I couldn’t eat another bite, but Rachel had a hearty appetite and picked a few pieces of white meat off the bones.
Laughing on the couch next to her, I smiled when she swiveled toward me holding a wishbone in her hands. I reached up and grabbed my side. A second later, snap! and we both hastily looked to see who got the wish.
“Oh no,” Rachel said, staring at her piece with the bony lump on top and then over at mine, a frail twig. “I didn’t make a wish because I was hoping you would get it.”
“Rachel,” I said, “I didn’t make a wish either because I wanted you to get it.” We stared at each other, basking in the sentiment of the moment, each holding the greasy bones in our hands. Then Rachel hugged me, her eyes moist with tears.
“I guess that means we both want the best for each other,” she said with a tender smile.
“It sure does, Rachel,” I replied, and with the snapping of that one wishbone, both our wishes came true.
Inspired by IRINA USHAKOVA
Odd Moments
Stumbling into the house, I looked ragged and tired, and felt even worse. After kicking off my shoes, I groped for the remote control and found it stuffed deep in the cushions of the couch along with some spare change and stale popcorn. Clicking the power button, I drifted off into a mindless television trance.
My afternoon stupor was cut short, however, when my grandfather Jimmy shuffled in wearing a dapper white tennis outfit and acting more enthusiastic than when he pops a few Viagra and sneaks off with my grandmother. I had accidentally found the bottle of pills a few weeks earlier in the cushions of the couch while looking for the TV remote.
“Dennis, what’s the matter with you?” he exclaimed.
“I’m just killing some time before my afternoon classes,” I said, defending my laziness.
“Come on, you’re young. Where’s your energy?”
“I’m on empty and just want to chill for a few minutes before it’s time to go.”
I couldn’t shake him that easily. “Look at me,” he said. “There’s something important I want you to understand. Do you know how many minutes people waste each day while they’re waiting for something—the bus, a taxi, a phone call, a ride, their next class?”
Waiting for the Viagra to kick in, I wanted to say, but I refrained. I heard it works pretty fast, anyway.
“If you tallied up all those minutes, there are probably four or five hours a week you could put to good use,” he said. “And I’m only talking about the time you spend waiting around or just “Chilling,” as you put it.
“I’ll make you a deal. Give me whatever time you have before your next class and I bet you’ll be convinced that killing time is hazardous to the health of your future. What do you say?”
“What are we betting?” I said jokingly.
“Okay, wise guy,” he said. “Fifty bucks. And since you’re a poverty-stricken college student I’ll let you pay me in installments, ten dollars a week.”
“Okay, Grandpa,” I said. “You’re on.”
“I’m going to tell you a story about a man who lived more than a century ago. His name was Elihu Burritt. Mr. Burritt learned to speak over a dozen languages using only a thirst for knowledge and the spare moments scattered throughout his day. People proclaimed him a genius, but he shunned the label, saying his success was attributed to carefully employing his “Odd moments.” Time that most of us use to catch a few minutes of television.
“Elihu Burritt was a blacksmith—certainly not a member of society’s upper crust—but he applied his time wisely. He said, “All I have accomplished or hope to accomplish is by plodding, persistence, and perseverance. The same way ants build up their hill—one particle at a time. If I was blessed with any ambition it was to prove that people could learn a great deal about the world and master different subjects simply by using the odd moments they come across each day. Sewage dumps often repulse people but if each of us could see the amount of time we waste piled up into a giant heap, we’d certainly change our ways.”
“Take a tip from Mr. Burritt: Killing time is a horrible waste. Choose a pursuit, something you would like to master, and learn it in your odd moments. Within a year you will have conquered that subject and your friends will declare you brilliant. You can share the same wisdom with them that I shared with you today. Don’t say anything. Time will tell if I’ve convinced you, but I suspect you’ll owe me fifty bucks.”
Grandpa slapped me gently on the knee and, with a spring in his step, trotted out for a game of tennis. I sat in quiet contemplation. I hadn’t expected anything he said to affect me, but I was intrigued. What skills could I possess six months from now if I put my time to better use? I certainly wouldn’t remember catching fifteen minutes of TV reruns. So I grabbed the remote control and clicked the power button. As the screen faded to black, I thought to myself, I’ve seen that episode anyway.
It’s been a while since my grandfather shared his wisdom with me and almost as long since I paid him the fifty bucks. At first I didn’t think he’d accept the money, but he took it, gladly. Probably used it to buy some more Viagra. I’ve heeded his advice and made good use of my odd moments. That day I decided to start reading about computer science, a subject that fascinate
d me but which I knew little about. Since then I’ve become an expert in computer software and started my own firm. These days I have very few spare moments, but thanks to my grandpa and the wisdom he shared with me, my future is in creating new technologies that will help change the way the world works and plays. At fifty bucks, it was a lesson well worth the price.
Inspired by DENNIS SILVERMAN
That Could Be You
When you get stuck driving behind an old person who’s moving slow, remember, someday that could be you.
When you’re talking with your grandma and you have to repeat the same thing a couple of times before she understands, remember, someday that could be you.
When you’re standing in line at the checkout counter and the frail old woman seems to take forever making out her check, remember, it only takes her a few seconds extra, and someday that could be you.
When you help your grandfather out of the car and you’re in a rush to get inside, remember to be patient, because someday that could be you.
When you see old people using walkers to get around, don’t pity them—they’re determined to get where they’re going. And remember, someday that could be you.
When you see a grandparent playing with grandchildren, smile and remember, someday that could be you.
When you hear that a seventy-five-year-old man went sky-diving for the first time, remember that, with the right attitude, someday that could be you.
When you hear a Harley-Davidson roar up and you notice that Grandma and Grandpa are out for a joyride, remember, someday that could be you.
When you see old people, look beyond the gray hair and wrinkles and think of the lives they’ve touched, the stories they can tell, and the extraordinary experiences they’ve had, and remember, someday that could be you.
Inspired by WALTER BURNS
The Shineologist
The circular black-and-yellow tins were stacked four and five high under an old chair supported by stainless-steel legs and overlaid in cheap burgundy leather, parched and splitting from so many years in service. The brushes were blotted with black fingerprints and the bristles sullied with dark polish. A few dingy rags folded neatly into squares were stacked, ready to be used when called upon. The dull metal footrest extended beyond the seat of the chair, waiting for the next person in need of a shine to sidle up.
It was nine A.M. and I was seated at gate twelve of the Oakland International Airport. It was two days before Thanksgiving and the place was bustling. Absorbed in a Stephen King novel and hoping my flight would depart on time, I spotted a mountain of a man lumbering toward me, his upper body jolting on his long, sturdy legs. Sporting black pants, a blue shirt, and a crisp green apron, his Brillo-like hair was combed back tightly against his head with ribbons of gray coursing through it. Toting a pitted metal toolbox with sturdy silver latches, he carted the tools of his trade.
My judgments dashed to the forefront, branding him an uneducated man who must have made some bad choices in his youth, thus relegating him to a menial job shining shoes at the airport. Within ten minutes, however, I would know his name, a portion of his life story, and come to the realization that my observations couldn’t have been more wrong.
My nose was submerged in my book when I spied a short potbellied gentleman who appeared to have swallowed a chubby pumpkin waddle up to the chair as the shoeshine man stacked tins of brown polish underneath. Gazing down at his shoes, his meaty hands held out like an opera singer’s, the man had the look of a child who’d gotten caught misbehaving. Wondering if there was any hope for his shabby pair of boat shoes, he asked, “How much for a shine?”
The shoeshine man had his back turned but briskly swiveled around on his rubber heels and said, “Three dollars for shoes and four dollars for boots, and the main thing is your satisfaction—step on up.”
His comment seized my attention, forcing me to withdraw from my book and watch as something wonderful and unexpected transpired. The shoeshine man flicked the top off a new tin of brown polish, smeared a healthy wad on his thumb, and, while humming a jolly tune and swaying his spacious hips, began kneading the polish around the tops of the man’s shoes and along the sides. His hands were like girders, dwarfing his customer’s feet as he made rapid, circular motions with his thumb. Using a tiny brush he buffed up the edge of the soles, paying strict attention to every detail. Within moments the weather-beaten pair of boat shoes that had seemed good only for mowing the lawn or cleaning the garage took on a rich luxurious sheen, like the luster of Godiva chocolates in an elegant display case. The shoeshine man snatched a folded rag from the pile, and briskly snapped it over the tops of the man’s shoes, buffing them to a splendid gloss. He even retied the laces before giving the man a gentle slap as if to say, Now you can walk proudly. And with that the man climbed down from the chair, paid up, and buoyantly rambled away, staring at his shoes with amazement.
As the shoeshine man vigorously scrubbed his hands on a towel, another man approached requesting a shine. The same attention to detail was given and three minutes later, sliding off the chair, the customer replied, “You do a great job.”
“It’s important to take pride in your work, no matter what you do. I aim to give a ten-dollar shine for three dollars.”
As his customers approached I realized that everything about the shoeshine man aimed at increasing self-confidence. His patrons climbed into a throne seated a few feet above the rest of the crowd as he worked his magic at their feet. They came feeling dissatisfied about their appearance and hoping he could enhance their presentation. His hands pulsating on their tired feet were relaxing, and his animated personality buoyed their spirits. As they climbed down from the chair and marched away, a lively bounce in their step, I realized that the shoeshine man was in the self-improvement business, and his impact was boundless. The shoes he shines travel thousands of miles by plane, foot, and car. Their owners tread through snow, ice, and rain, and the grime from the unforgiving city streets takes a toll. His job seemed almost trivial at first, until I saw the businessman getting a quick shine before hopping a flight to New York for an important meeting. And the nervous young man who may have been going to visit his girlfriend’s family for the first time. The young boy who shimmied up on the chair was perhaps going to visit Grandma and Grandpa and hoping to make a grand entrance. And then I peered curiously down at my own pair of shoes—black, dull, neglected. The shoeshine man was enjoying a cup of coffee when I approached.
“Can I trouble you for a shine?”
“No trouble at all,” he said, “after all, that’s how I earn my living.”
I ascended into the same throne where thousands of satisfied customers had sat before me, the roughness of the cracked leather skidding over my pants. Propping my feet on the footrest, the shoeshine man grabbed my ankles, which felt like twigs in his powerful hands, as he positioned my feet at the best angle for him to do his job. Flipping the top off a lid of black polish, he ran his thumb along the rim and amassed a healthy gob on his finger, which he then began massaging vigorously into the tops of my shoes.
“I guess you meet a lot of interesting people in this profession,” I asked, hoping he would be interested in conversation.
“Oh, I could tell you some stories,” he said, and began humming a tune.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Fifteen years. I planned on only a few weeks but …”
“Are you from around here?”
“Nooo … My port of entry into this world was eastern Arkansas. I grew up there chasing southern ladies,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I’m a shineologist by trade. Got my cobbler’s license over forty years ago. I’ve cobbled shoes in Alaska, Austria, New Jersey, and the Bronx. Been married six times, too.”
“Sounds like you could write a book,” I said, realizing there was more behind the man than anything I had expected.
“Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’ve got a few ideas scribbled down but they’re stuffed in the drawe
r of an old rolltop desk I’ve got at home. Most of my story is still in my head. Maybe I’ll write it someday, when it’s more complete. I’m just getting started. I learned to read only five years ago; I was forty-nine years old. My granddaughter was learning to read in school and since I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible, we studied together. These days I’m wearing out my library card, can’t get enough of books.”
“Have any recommendations?”
“Sure do,” he said, jerking open the clapboard drawer beneath my seat to reveal an immense volume titled The Science of Mind. It was a book I’d read years earlier; one I never suspected would be housed in the drawer of a man who earned his living shining shoes.
“As a Man Thinketh by James Allen is a great book, too; you should read it,” he declared.
Shocked, I agreed that it was a fantastic book—perhaps the most insightful book on the power of thought ever written.
“I’m just trying to be a superb human being,” he said. “I enjoy shining shoes and meeting people but I’m studying to be a deacon. I’ve shined thousands of shoes over the years and now I’d like to shine some hearts. Too many people in the world forget what’s really important. They just need a little buff and polish, help them see things more clearly. You know, it’s our shoes that tell our story. After forty years I can look at a pair of shoes and guess what the owner does for a living, his attitude about the world, what kind of house he lives in, and if he pays attention to detail. It’s been said that the eyes are the mirrors to the soul; well, I like to work from the bottom up, and I think that shoes are, too. “Shine on,” is what I say. Everything always looks better with a “Shine on.””
He slapped the tops of my shoes, signifying another job well done. I gazed down and saw a forlorn twosome of black leathers transformed into a sparkling pair I was proud to display. “What’s your name?” I asked, hopping down from the lofty perch.