I don't have exciting news for you. I lost.
I didn't make it to the final round of the MeeGenius Author Challenge, and I have no idea if the editors at Real Simple Magazine liked my essay or not. All I know is that I lost. I am not asking for your pitty, your sympathy, or even a comforting smile.
I am proud of myself because I took some chances. I took creative work that was, and still is, near and dear to my heart, and I put it out there for people who have no knowledge of me to read and to judge.
I am proud of my writing. I worked hard, and felt good about it. In fact, I am going to share my essay with you for the Real Simple Life Lessons Contest right here, right now! I enjoyed writing it, and I hope that you enjoy reading it!
Glove Box
Love
“Check your tire pressure at least
once a week, and you never know when you might need a screwdriver.”
This is what my grandfather, whom I
so fondly called Papa, said to me when I tried to return his tire pressure
gauge and screwdriver. Still in
their boxes, they were old, and in working order, like the 1978 Oldsmobile 98
that he had just passed on to me.
He had kept the tools in his glove box—always.
In 1993 I was a college student at
the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and I was beginning my student teacher
training. I needed to drive off
campus everyday to the schools where I was teaching. Papa was 83 years old and no longer driving. I needed a car, and he had one that he
wasn’t using.
The Olds was quite a sight! The flawless white exterior, carefully maintained
by only parking in the absolute farthest parking spot, made any used car
dealer’s heart flutter. Shiny red
vinyl seats and plush red carpeting created the perfect atmosphere for groovy
music to blast from the radio. It
was big enough to park one of today’s smart cars in the trunk, and too big to
pull into most campus parking spaces.
The engine that was held together with Papa’s strategically placed duct
tape got me where I needed to go.
I rolled my eyes, thanked Papa for
his tools, and left them in the glove box so as to keep him happy. What if he asked to see them some day
down the road?
Papa was not about to just give me
that car. Papa was going to teach
me about economy and the American Way.
He sold it to me---for $1.00.
I never paid him, and I still feel very guilty for that.
Papa had left Germany in 1938 with
his wife and 6-month-old son on one of the last boats to leave before the start
of World War II. He came to the United States with $4.00 in his pocket. He had
sewn cameras into the upholstery of his furniture, hoping to sell them in order
to have some cash for his young family.
Upon arriving in the United States,
not speaking a word of English, he selflessly provided a home for his wife,
baby, brother-in-law, mother, and mother-in-law (she lived with my grandparents
for the first 30 years of their marriage). Papa worked for many years as a butcher, even
sacrificing the holiest of Jewish holidays to work on Yom Kippur. His family needed money to survive, and
he couldn’t risk losing his job by being caught as a Jew.
Through his strong work ethic and
devotion to his family, Papa eventually sent his two sons through college,
medical, and dental school loan free; not many people today can even say that
they have done this for their children.
He provided for them in ways better than he could ever have imagined for
himself. That is quite an
accomplishment for a man with only $4 and a few weeks of night school
English. He was proud of himself,
and rightly so. Love drove him.
Papa’s five grandchildren were his
entire world—at least he made us feel that way. Not only did he attend every school performance, graduation,
recital, soccer game, and birthday party, but he carved out special time that
he provided for us as well.
Each one of us would have our own
sleepovers with our grandparents.
I anxiously watched out the window, waiting for that big Olds 98 to pull
into the driveway when it was my turn to be the center of his attention. Papa always told me to sit in the back
with my grandmother. I loved her
dearly, but I wanted to sit in the front with him. In his mind, however, it was
chivalrous to have the ladies sit in the back. I recall countless rides to our favorite restaurant,
Benji’s, for dinner before the sleepover.
My dinner was waiting at the table when we arrived—a corned beef
sandwich on rye (hold the bread, please) and pickles on the side. Papa always made sure that it was
prepared perfectly. It was almost
as if Benji had created a new menu item just for me.
He taught me how to play poker with
his friends—I couldn’t believe that at 7 years old I was good enough to beat
all of those men who had been playing since they were my age! Wow! Papa was an amazing teacher, or so I thought.
As I grew into my teens I knew that
I loved my Papa. Grandchildren
unconditionally love their grandparents.
Yet, I always thought that he was a little quirky. He would come into our house and after
he adjusted the thermostat to his liking, he never failed to sit in the same
squeaky chair and to gripe about something. Whether it was his health, the weather, or the cost of gas,
he always had a complaint.
When I went off to college I didn’t
see Papa as often as I used to, but still spoke with him frequently. I became involved in my own life, as a
college student does. I focused on
my next exam, the next party with friends, or the most current drama with my
roommates. All things, as I look
back now, that were trivial.
He called at least once a week just
to see how I was. Never failing to
tell me to study hard, yet reminding me of the importance of catching a good
football game with friends.
Before our conversation drew to a close, Papa always asked me how the
car was doing? “Are you making
sure that you never have less than a half tank of gas? You don’t want to run out.” He loved that car, and he loved
that I was driving it.
I only drove that car for about a
year when Papa passed away. It
never felt quite the same to drive it.
No one asked me if I checked the tire pressure, no one reminded me to
let it warm up in the cold weather.
No one else loved it as much as I did. That car had become more to me than simply transportation. It still smelled like Papa’s
aftershave.
For my college graduation that
winter my parents helped me to buy a new car. It was time to say good-bye to Papa’s car. The car never really was mine . . . it
was Papa’s. I always felt as
if it was sort of on loan. I was
supposed to be able to give it back to him. Before the junkyard handed over $300 in cash in exchange for
16 years of memories, I cleaned out the glove box.
I remember smiling when I found the
screwdriver and tire pressure gauge. Instead of them symbolizing the nagging of an old man,
they suddenly symbolized his love for me.
Each time I have purchased a new
car over the years before even putting the key into the ignition, I have
faithfully placed Papa’s tools in the glove box. After all, you must check your tire pressure once a week,
and you never know when you might need a screwdriver.
