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tourbi
Age: 57 Zodiac: 
| Joined: 09 Jan 2008 |
| Posts: 2640 |
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Location: tourbiland, at the foot of Pikes Peak, USA
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 Posted: Wed Jul 16, 2008 2:49 pm |
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Saturdays with Granddaddy
Stefanie Durham
Since I was old enough to walk my granddaddy would take me to the beach every Saturday morning so we could share the sunrise and collect the shells that would wash up along the shore. I felt very special that he chose me to spend this time with him. This became our tradition. As if it were custom, he always wore the same wide-brimmed straw hat, long Bermuda shorts, and a white T-shirt. Two years into our tradition, he bought me a smaller version of the same wide-brimmed straw hat. He said that every seashell collector had to have this hat.
I had the nicest collection of shells. We made all kind of things (lamps, picture frames, mirrors) with the treasures we found at the beach. I’ll never forget the way the water would wash over my bare feet, and on its return to sea it seemed to want to take my lightweight body with it. One particular Saturday morning after the sun rose and the sky had turned unyielding blue, we had been combing the beach for about an hour when my granddaddy reached down and said, “Look at this beauty. This is what you call real treasure.”
I rushed over to see what he had found. One look and I knew this was quite a find. Granddaddy dipped it into the water and rinsed it off. As he held it up into the sunlight it glistened and gave a kaleidoscope effect of an array of rainbow colors.
“That’s a ring,” I said.
“Yes, it is, a diamond ring,” he said as he put it into his pocket.
We quickly went back to searching for shells, because at age seven seashells seemed to be more important than the discovery of a diamond ring. Granddaddy and I continued our Saturday morning trips to the beach until I was about fourteen. He was getting older and driving was not his specialty anymore, and I decided that as a teenager I needed my beauty rest on Saturday mornings anyway.
The day before my eighteenth birthday, Granddaddy called to ask me if tomorrow I could drive him to the beach so the two of us could share the sunrise and look for shells like we used to do. Just as I was about to protest, I remembered how every Saturday I would wait for him by the front door, and without fail, he was always there. Maybe he had forgotten that it was my birthday and I might have other plans, but I couldn’t deny him a trip to the beach. The next morning I arrived at Granddaddy’s house, and he gingerly made his way to the car. Dressed in his traditional shell-collector attire, complete with the straw hat, he was carrying a handled shopping bag.
“Whatcha got in the bag?” I inquired.
“Every shell collector has to have a wide-brimmed straw hat,” he said as he reached over and replaced my favorite Yankees ball cap with a new straw hat, identical to his.
“Thank you,” I said.
On the drive to the beach, we spoke about the weather, his health, and my school, but he never mentioned that it was my birthday, which I thought was peculiar. When we pulled up to the beach I helped him out of the car and we walked down to the shore. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, and the darkness was giving way to the start of a new day. Granddaddy started reminiscing about when I was a little girl and how I had to show him every seashell I picked up, even the broken ones. Giggling a bit, he described how he would answer by saying, “Now that’s real treasure,” with wide, encouraging eyes. He chuckled harder when he remembered how some mornings I would get so tired of walking, and when my little feet couldn’t carry me anymore, he would have to piggyback me all the way to the car. By the time he was finished with all the stories, the sun was soaring into a vast cobalt-blue sky. It was a beautiful morning, and the persuasive breeze made the eighty-five-degree temperature seem comfortable. Far in the distance you could see an outline of cumulus clouds building. Afternoon showers were a possibility. We walked down the beach together picking up shells along the way, just like we used to do.
Granddaddy looked like he was getting tired so I suggested we head back. Agreeable, he turned around and said, “I have something for you.” I looked at him awkwardly since he hadn’t brought anything with him. He reached deep into his Bermuda shorts pocket and pulled something out. He put his arm around me and continued walking back up the beach. “I’ve been waiting for twelve years to give this to you,” he said.
I was thinking it must be one of those rare shells we used to look for and he wanted me to add to my collection. He paused for a moment, held up his hand, and dangling from his fingers was the most beautiful diamond necklace.
“Remember the ring we found when you were seven?” he asked.
I nodded yes as my eyes welled up with tears.
“I had it made into a necklace for you,” he said.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—the diamond my granddaddy found all those years ago while on our traditional Saturday morning trip to the beach. As he placed the necklace around my neck he said, “Happy birthday, my precious granddaughter.”
I never realized until that day that our Saturday trips to the beach were just as important to him as they were to me. As we walked back up the beach I said, “I’ve missed our trips to the beach. Would you like to come back next Saturday?”
His eyes lit up like . . . well, probably the way mine did, every Saturday, all those years ago.
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