The Giving Tree

My grandfather was the only one in the house.

It was not him that I wanted to ask for the book - he probably in fact did not know the book even existed. I had to modify my plan, first by shedding all the emotionalism of it.

My grandfather had been through two wars and silently, paternally, held sway over seven children. He awoke early each Sunday to attend mass at 6 a.m., always alone, so that his faith would be personal and not influence the others. In his retirement, he had secured three pensions. He meticulously tended to his large yard and garden during these autumnal years, making time for a weekly round of golf. He would complete the New York Times crossword each day with a small Dixie cup at hand and a pinch of Copenhagen in his lip. He was a large man, a commanding presence, and he only minced words to tell the occasional joke.

He became Catholic to appease my grandmother. He embraced the religion, which helped him to convert his sins and personal demons into unrelated humanitarian efforts. He was a maintenance alcoholic. He had a gambling problem. He could not conquer these things, so he gave to every charity that knocked on his door and held from judging the actions of others. He did not preach behavior, but would be stern about things such as money or performing chores – things that obeyed universal law. As his children grew into adults, he would never reprimand or speak to their reckless behaviors. He wanted them to find their own deliverance; something he knew could only be found when you choose to pursue it.

My visit took him by surprise. Normally, we would only see each other at family gatherings - where conversations only touch the surface of our life events. He gave me the rundown on where everyone was at. He asked after my health.

- You could do me a favor. There’s a book that grandma’s had since I was little, and I’d sort of like to have it. It’s a children’s book.
- Well, you could ask her when she gets back. Stay awhile.
- But it’s urgent, and I’m. To be honest…I want to give it to someone else. It has sentimental value to me, and it would mean a lot to me to give it to her. I wouldn’t be returning it.
- I don’t think she would miss it. Take it if you can find it. I’ll try and remember to tell her.
- Thanks. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.

I raced up the stairs to one of the rooms that his children would inhabit whenever they were between jobs or marriages. I knew exactly where it was - it had been resting in the same place for the past fifteen years. It was sitting on a stack of books next to a single bed, its apple green book jacket standing out in all the muted colors of the room. Having the prominent spot of the stack probably meant I was not the sole person who cherished it so. For a moment I second-guessed taking it - making use of it this way just seemed a little disrespectful. A fanciful, romantic notion.