A few weeks ago, my grandfather passed away. I was very close to him. We often went fishing together. I always loved the fishing, but he used to tell me lots of stories of his trip to America. I regret to say that I never enjoyed his stories, and I often told him so.
He was an interesting man. Few understood him, but to those who did understand him, he was a rare gem.
One of the odd points about him was his fascination with America. You must know that we are Brazilians. We have our own culture and our own country. We are proud of that. But my grandfather never was interested in any place but America. He could even name the presidents of the United States in order and say the years they were in office and what major things they accomplished. He could never name our president.
He was a carpenter. He made things from wood for a living. Tables, chairs, cupboards, benches, beds. He usually made furniture like these, but he wasn’t shy to make other things like rowboats and even wooden carvings of animals and people. He didn’t have much money.
After saving up for over twenty years, my grandfather finally had enough to visit America. He didn’t even have enough money to take grandma with him, but she knew it was his dream and seemed just as excited about the opportunity as him.
It was only a three-week trip, because that’s all he could afford, but the stories he had to share from those three weeks were enough to fill hours and hours of our time together. I regret not sharing in his excitement.
Yesterday, while going through my grandfather’s attic, I came across a chest. It is my job to go through the attic and sort out his things to be given to those whom he listed in his will. It was a short list. He was very poor. The chest immediately caught my attention because next to my name was nothing but the phrase “chest in attic“. This must be my inheritance from him.
It was covered in American stamps and stickers and dates. Grandpa had never told me about this chest, but I could tell immediately what was inside. Maybe it was a secret because he wanted to protect what was so important to him? The pangs of regret started to awaken as I approached the chest.
When I opened it, I found a neatly organized set of memorabilia: all travel items and American souvenirs. It was obvious that great care was used to handle these items. I couldn’t touch any of them. Emotions flooded over me, even greater than during his funeral. This is the part of him that I was never willing to understand, and he is giving it to me.
After a great deal of crying on my knees, still kneeling in front of the open chest, I worked up the courage take a closer look and to unpack the items. I brought over a nearby table, that he had made but could never sell because it wobbled and had given to my mother in his will, and started to lay out the items on the table.
The first item I took out of the chest was a folded map. It was a map of the United States with drawings, scribbles, lines, stars, and other markings on it. I’m sure this is the map he used to plan his visit. I unfolded it and laid it out on the table.
Next, I took out an old pair of brown, leather boots: clearly worn, but carefully polished. I remembered how he told me of the time he climbed Mount Saint Helens before it exploded, wearing a pair of new boots that he bought at a nearby store. It was the first time he had worn them, and he got terrible blisters on both feet during the hike, but for the joy of the experience, he kept hiking.
I also took out three bow ties that were with the boots. I heard the sound of my grandfather’s voice in my head saying “but I still had my bow tie on” which he put into all of his stories. He got lots of strange looks in America because of those bow ties, and not even grandma could explain to you why he was always wearing a bow tie his whole trip. I guess it’s one of those things about Grandpa that made him a gem.
Next I unpacked a few old cameras. They came with two rolls of film. The cameras in the olden days had film that you had to roll up after each picture you took. I found a few of his pictures, too. I had never seen these ones. Maybe he didn’t think they were interesting enough to share with anyone, or maybe they were his closest untold memories. I felt an overwhelming desire to have him with me and share the stories of these photographs, and I couldn’t help but giving myself time to shed more tears before continuing.
A brass magnifying glass with a white handle. I’ve heard of this more than a thousand times! Grandpa took it out every time he saw a new plant, bug, footprint, rock, or anything else he had never seen before. And now I was holding it in my own hands. A story he told me a hundred times came to my mind.
It was the story of when he took out the magnifying glass at a restaurant to inspect the bread he ordered -because he had never had bread like that before- and how the waitress became very offended at him and yelled all sorts of things that he didn’t understand. His English was good according to the textbooks he used to study in his free time back here in Brazil, but he was sure that the things the lady was saying weren’t in any of his textbooks! I little smile slowly climbed its way up from my heart and onto my face.
I put the magnifying glass on the table on the map, and unpacked a few more items. I found a neatly folded American flag, with the red stripes and white stars as clean as could be. I found a leather glasses case, but no glasses inside. Two yellow boxes of unused film. A notebook in a light brown leather cover, which I am still not ready to open and read. And a wooden pipe. In the chest, all that was left were a few pairs of clothes, folded carefully and organized by type.
With all of the items of memorabilia laid out on the table, an idea, like a ray of warm sunlight coming into a dark cave in the middle of winter, came into my mind but it isn’t my idea at all. It’s my grandfather’s, which he is giving to me.
My grandfather, in his will, is giving me a chance to make up for not listening to his stories by reliving them. He’s giving me a mission: to follow in his footsteps.
I’m going to retrace his path across America. I’m going to hike Mount Saint Helens. I’m going to smoke in his wooden pipe. I’m going to wear a white and orange, floral bow tie. I’m even going to examine my bread at a local restaurant with a brass magnifying glass and it’s white handle.
Today, I’m planning this trip. My cup of black coffee is here. My determination rising inside of me is here. For the first time, excitement about this foreign country has started to grow in my heart, not because of anything special about it, but because of something special about Grandpa. I’m going to make up for all of the times I didn’t listen excitedly to Gramp’s stories. I’m going to get closure.