The Day My Grandfather Became My Hero

My grandfather was not a learned man. Educated only until the fifth grade, he had to leave school and start working to help support the family. Grandpa was a man at age 10; working, smoking cigarettes, learning about the value of a hard earned dollar. This early introduction into the real world did not make him a patient, tolerant or sympathetic person.  He never wore his heart on his sleeve; the lovey stuff just wasn’t his way.

As a child whose real father was not much of a father figure, I loved this man who gladly filled in. One of my favorite past times was watching as he blew smoke rings from his cigarette. I watched as the rings floated above and gradually dissipated into foggy nothingness. “Do it again, Grandpa!” I pleaded, the trick never getting old. And then there was our nightly ritual of eating shelled peanuts after dinner. Best of all, he gave me a shot glass of beer to wash it down while he took thirsty glugs from his own frosted beer mug. I felt big when I was with Grandpa.

Then there was the day I saw a side of Grandpa I had never seen before and never saw again. It was the day he became a super hero. 

It was a warm, early summer afternoon and I was out riding bikes with the kids in my grandparents’ neighborhood; the place where I spent so much time growing up.  I was riding a hand-me-down bike from a second cousin; a gold banana seat-style bike with long, wide handle bars.

Accustomed to riding my pink Huffy at home, this great-grandfather of the Chopper was foreign to me. I wobbled and swerved all the way down the block, trying to keep up with the other Richmond Hill kids.  And then, just as I got to the familiar brick retaining wall in front of the last house on the block, I lost control and smashed into it. I was catapulted from the bike and fell in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk.

My cries soon became wails in response to a combination of pain and the realization that my grandparents would never hear me from where I lay, half pinned under the bike. I wondered how I would ever get up and manage to ride the mangled wreck back to Grandma and Grandpa’s. 

Then suddenly, through my tear­­­­­­­­­­­­-filled eyes, a guardian angel appeared. It occurred in slow motion and without sound, as if in an old-fashioned black and white movie. Before I knew it, strong, sure arms were scooping me up and cradling me like a baby. 

“Grandpa’s here,” he soothed.  “I’ve got you.”

I buried my face in his neck and let out heaving sobs of relief as he carried me all the way home.

Carefully, Grandpa brought me into the house and set me on a kitchen chair where Grandma was expected to take over and tend to my wounds.

I sat there and clenched my teeth as she poured peroxide on my scraped legs and bandaged them up. And in true Italian Grandmother style, it wasn’t long before she had a hot bowl of soup in front of me.

“Eat, you need your strength to feel better,” she said. 

Soup. On a summer day.

I pushed the bowl away. I didn’t need soup to make me feel better.

I began recounting the ordeal again in exquisite detail, a few of which may have been embellished. I groaned a little more loudly than my wounds would have warranted. I whimpered. I whined. And soon Grandpa scooped me up, just as he’d done down the block. But this time, he placed me on his lap and held me there in his strong, sure arms.

And suddenly all my wounds were healed.