Grandma
Suzanne always said, “I take my happy with me wherever I go.”
I
always thought happy was grandpa’s name.
When
grandpa retired, I was just learning to read. The banner said Congratulations
Mark! Best Wishes.
“Who
is Mark?” I asked my mom.
“That’s
Grandpa,” she said.
“I
thought his name was Happy, because grandma always says she is taking her happy
with her.”
My
mom’s sister overheard this and she laughed as my mom did the best she could to
keep her face straight.
“Oh,
Elliot, honey. That’s just an old saying Grandma likes,” she said.
“That’s
right,” know-it-all Aunt Bee said. “The entire saying is ‘happiness is not a
destination. It is a companion we can choose to accompany us on our journey.’”
I
exhaled through a clenched jaw. My welling, deep black eyes squinted to slits.
I turned and stomped away. I heard oh my and snickers following me. I hid
beneath a row of coats in the hallway leading to the restrooms. I situated
myself in the corner, well concealed among the bunched coats.
That
is what I took with me — memories of teasing, laughter, and gut-twisting
embarrassment. I carried my thoughts of my own stupidity.
I
watched ankles and legs. From my vantage point I could only make out cropped
people as they walked in the hallway.
Mom
came out and called a hushed, “Elliot.” A half-heartedly attempt to reach me, I
thought. Dad stepped behind her and convinced her that the concern she held was
unfounded.
“He
will be fine. He’s just a little embarrassed,” I overheard Dad say. “He’s just
a boy who needs time alone to get himself together.”
I
should muscle through and be a tough guy like my father, I thought. My dad
never did anything embarrassing. He played hockey with the guys from the health
network where he practiced orthopedic medicine.
“Are
you sure he’s okay?” mom asked.
“I’m
sure,” Dad said.
“You
are probably right,” she conceded.
I
watched ankles, shins and shoes parade back and forth. I’m not sure how long I
sat there. As time passed, voices got louder, steps got quicker. The party was
building momentum. Laughter was populating. Inhibitions were vanishing. Happy
was a promiscuous companion of all the party guests.
Well
nearly all. I only had shame to carry with me. Grandma Suzanne came to me then.
At an age when her peers walked with orthopedic shoes, she wore a beige, wedge
sandal. Her slender legs hadn’t lost their tone, thanks to her regular practice
of yoga and Zumba.
She
often said, “inactivity was akin to playing dead, and she had far too much
living yet to do.”
Grandma
Suzanne described herself as young, which she justified because she could still
sit on the floor.
“Children
sit on the floor,” she always said.
It
was unsaid that old people sit in Barcalounger or arm chairs with ottomans to
put their heavy feet up. She gave her chair up at gatherings to people half her
age.
Grandma
knew where to find me, and magically she knew just the right time to seek me
out. She crawled right under those coats across from me. She didn’t say
anything. She just sat there in her pantsuit and waited for me to acknowledge
her. I couldn’t wait long. I looked up at Grandma and didn’t feel a need to
explain what I was doing or why I was sitting there. She didn’t need me to
express how angry I felt when Aunt Bee laughed or how lonely I felt after leaving
the party.
I sensed
her calm. I felt peace just being near here.
She
stretched her arms and said, “Won’t you please join me? Happy is inside
watching the band. She’s waiting for you.”
I
returned her smile. I nodded. I placed my hands in hers with age spots that
wouldn’t lie. I loved that woman.
We
danced and laughed. I noticed Mom, well into her swaying stupor, color her face
with relief when she saw me with Grandma.
I was with Happy then. Grouchy was too heavy a companion, I decided.
