literature

Driving With My Pop-Pop

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Literature Text

"Come on up here," my Pop-Pop said, patting the crisp white sheets of his hospital bed. I hauled my tiny three-year-old body up beside him and shook my braids, the tiny pink butterflies at the ends clacking together like marbles. "Let's go for a drive," he continued, weakly adjusting the pillow behind him. "Where should we go?" I racked my brain to think of the best place in the world. "Disney," I proclaimed, thrilled with myself for coming up with such a good spot to spend the day. "Disney it is," he said, reaching out his pale, shaky hands and taking one of my braids in each. With a strength betraying his weak appearance, he tugged my braids in turn, "steering" us down an imaginary road toward a place we'd never see together.

I never knew my Pop-Pop as a whole, undamaged man. By the time I was out of diapers, his stroke had relegated him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. More often than not, however, the wheelchair was too much effort, and as a result he spent most of his time in the hospital bed that had taken over the space once occupied by the dining room table. His lack of mobility did nothing to tame his spirit, though. He still tended the tomato garden that had been his lifelong passion from the driveway beside it, issuing orders to my great-grandmother and giving her a hard time when her tomato-growing skills proved to be less honed than his. My cousins and I knelt around his chair, the gravel digging into our knees as we drew around his chair with chalk and plotted to steal one of his prize-winning tomatoes later, when the afternoon sun forced he and my great-grandmother inside.

In his younger days, my Pop-Pop had been a trucker, spending long weeks away from home with no contact. Despite his eighth grade education, he was a very smart man who could add an entire column of numbers in his head just by glancing at it. He followed politics very closely, and was so obsessed with golf that he would paint his golf balls with red nail polish so he could locate them on the snowy course.

These are all stories I have been told about him. By the time I knew him, he could barely speak in full sentences, but when he did speak it was always important. He had spent the better part of his life imparting little bits of wisdom on his loved ones, but for me to hear him speak was a fairly rare occurrence; as a result, I always paid close attention when he did have something to say.

One day, as he and I 'drove' down a long, winding road towards the zoo, my great-grandmother peeked in, drying a tin cup by hand. "You keeping a close eye on that white line, Joe?" she asked, offering us a rare smile. "Always," his voice was raspy and forced, but he smiled back lovingly. She disappeared into the kitchen again, and despite my urge to follow her for some Tang in the frosty tin cup, I turned to face my Pop-Pop, who still had a hold of one of my braids. "What does that mean?" I asked. He smiled, and stroked one of my braids. "When you're driving, sometimes it gets hard to see. If it rains, or if your eyes are very tired like mine. If you keep your eyes on the white line along the road, you'll always be able to tell where you're going."

He passed away a few years after that, but his advice--imparted on a toddler--is still with me to this day. Now I am twenty-five years old, and when I am driving down the highway late at night with dozens of people behind me, shining their brights into my eyes, I look to the side of the road and feel my Pop-Pop sitting beside me, telling me to stay focused on the white line and I'll be okay.

By the time I was old enough to know him, he didn't have much left to give to his young great-grandchildren. All he had was eighty-two years' worth of life lessons, memories, and learning experiences and the strength inside to try to voice them. He left me a legacy, a collection of knowledge I never could have acquired myself; honestly, I can't think of a better gift than that.
something i had to write for class, that :iconai-maclean: said i should post here.. i hope she was right. =)
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