It was good having a cup of coffee and a piece of pecan pie for breakfast with my grandfather the other morning. For me, it was my first cup of coffee in a few months and my first taste of Grandma’s baking in over a year. For my grandfather, it was one of the first things he had eaten in about a week. We never have been accused of being crazy about health foods.
A few days ago in Jamaica I got one of those calls. I was woken up at 5:30 in the morning by a phone call from my mom saying that things were not going well with Grandpa, how soon could I get there? By the time I had contacted the Peace Corps office, sorted things out in Bellevue and packed a bag, I missed the last morning taxi down to Port Antonio. I walked the three miles down to the cross roads at the Alligator Bridge hoping to get a taxi from the other side of the valley, but still had to wait three hours for the next taxi.
Fortunately I was able to make it to Kingston before the end of the day and arranged a flight for the next morning, sorted things out with Peace Corps and got a place to stay for the night. My flight had no delays for the first time in a long time and I was able to meet my dad at the Philly Airport old school style with no cell phones. A few hours drive later and I was at my grandparent’s place with the rest of my family for the first time since our dinner last summer in Philly. It felt good, though it would have been nice under better circumstances.
Over the next few days, with no real explanation of how or why, my grandfather seemed to get better. He felt so good in fact that he decided to get on the tractor and mow the lawn, refusing to let any of us do it for him. I did have to put my foot down when my grandmother asked me to start the weed whacker for her so that she could finish the lawn. There is something about an 85 year old, 110-pound lady walking around the yard with a weed whacker while her 26 year old grandson watches that just doesn’t seem right to me.
