Beauty In The Beast

It’s no surprise that everyone in town turned out for my Grandad's wake. Everyone except Patch. Everybody loved Thomas. The kindest man they called him, genuine, always smiling, a true gentleman. It was all true. My Grandad never lost his patience or his temper. He really was the kindest, gentlest man.

I spent much of my younger years with him, hanging onto his every word, trying my damnedest to be like him. I learned over time that wasn't so easy. What came naturally to him wasn't so natural for me. He left this world the way he lived it. Quietly, with a smile on his face, he went to bed and never woke up. I loved my Grandad more than anyone else, and I really don't know how to live without him.

The living room is packed with people, flowers and food. It's overwhelming. A loud eruption of laughter draws my attention to the corner of the room where my sister, Susan, is clearly enjoying herself with a group of guests.

When she sees me she mouths, "Come here.”

I shake my head, no.

She comes over, grabs my arm, and drags me to Grandad's room.

We explore his personal space, looking through his drawers and closet. I find his little black book on top of the dresser. There's a post-it note on top with my name on it. I pick it up and caress it lovingly. Grandad's book of wisdom, full of anecdotes and valuable lessons. I can hear him as I cradle his book of life.

"The way out is through."

"I'm not here to be served, but to serve."

"Better not to look for the silver lining, but the lesson."

"Look for the beauty in the beast."

"Be the miracle."

Susan startles me out of my daydream, "Are you ok?"

I nod, yes.

“Mom said he asked her to put your name on that old book last night before he went to sleep,” she said.

We explore a few more minutes before Susan says , “It feels intrusive rummaging through his things, I’m going back.”

I stayed behind a little longer before going back downstairs. I found the room comforting.

Millicent, a neighbor from down the road, spied me sitting in a corner and approached with an enormous plate of food. She shoved it at me, “You need to eat!” Then she rambled on about what a great man Thomas was and how things will get better.

I just smile, nod, and take the plate. As she walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder why people insist on food, so much food, when it was nearly impossible to take a bite. Grief does not make one hungry. Far from it. And why, oh why, say it’ll get better? Right now it doesn’t feel like it will ever get better and saying it just makes it worse. I know people are trying, but I just want to be left alone to wallow in my sorrow.

The noise became too much for me. I step outside and sit on a porch rocker. I open Grandad's book. Tucked within the pages is a folded piece of paper, which I open to read.

“Help Patch with his pain." It was dated two days ago.

When I put the note back in the book, I noticed a pocket on the inner back cover. Inside the pocket is an ornate key. I recognize that key! Slowly my mind wanders back in time.

Grandad lifted a box from the trunk of his car, "See I put all my change in this box here and when it's full, I take it to the bank and convert it into bills. That way I have it when I need it for miracles."

That amazed me, "Grandad, you can buy miracles?"

"Well," he chuckled, "I can't really buy miracles, but I can help them along a little."

It confused me. Grandad laughed. "You'll understand one day." He put the box back and covered it with a blanket, then closed the trunk.

A flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder brought me back. The clouds shifted, then sheets of rain poured down. After a short time, the storm cleared, and a rainbow appeared. I can hear Grandad in my head, "After the rain the rainbow." Of course, to him the meaning was so much more than just rain and rainbows.

I reached inside the front door and grabbed my rain jacket hanging on the coat tree. I slipped into it along with my boots, which were outside the front door on the porch.

I headed toward the garage, then changed my mind and instead walked across the street to see Patch. He was moving some garden materials from the front to the back of the house. There were only a few sparse patches of grass in the muddy, waterlogged yard.

I called out to him, "Hi Patch, missed you at the Grandad's wake."

He just looked at me with his one eye. The other covered with the usual black patch and gave a loud harrumph.

After a few seconds I offered, "Want to come over for some food? There's so much."

He ignored me and continued carrying the supplies to the backyard.

"I can help with that," I said.

"No need, I got it," he interrupted.

I watched him as he struggled to carry the stones. An eighty-year-old man I'd known most of my life, refusing to let me help him. He was always a grump, but he's gotten worse over the years, became sort of a recluse too.

I can hear Grandad say, "Always show kindness, we're all just passing through."

I walked over, bent down, picked up a paver, and headed for the backyard. As we pass each other, we make eye contact. His face is expressionless, but he did nod his appreciation. I feel good about that and spend the next couple of hours helping him, even though the rain started again, and the yard became muddier and muddier.

His backyard is such a stark contrast to the front. A greenhouse overflowing with flowering plants and a huge chrysanthemum garden filled with colorful blossoms in all the shades of the rainbow. The blooms were huge and beautiful enough to be featured in Home and Garden magazine. I was in awe that this hermit of a man who displayed no love for anything or anyone had created this heavenly paradise right here is his backyard away from any prying eyes.

Once finished, he offered me a can of soda. No words. Just handed me a drink.

"Thanks," I said,"Patch, your backyard is amazing. How long have you been working on it?"

He looked at me with a half smile, "Evie and I used to work in the yard all the time before she died. She loved it. Called it her secret garden." He fell silent for a moment, lost in his memories. "Guess I kept it going because it makes me feel close to her."

I knew his wife had died a long time ago. I remembered how the house was so well maintained back then. Fresh paint, green grass, and a white picket fence. It made me sad to realize the difference and to understand that Patch wasn’t grumpy; he had been lonely all these years.

"You know I could come and help you around the place," I said.

"No. I won't be here much longer, banks taking the house. I fell behind on the payments and unless I catch up the balance due, I'll be gone by the end of the month." Shakes his head, "Don't know where I'm going. Don't really care. But I'll miss our garden." He cleared his throat and walked toward the house, waving me off.

Then he turned to face me, "Your Grandad was a good man. Think you might be too. He’d be proud of you. Thanks for the help."

I felt good. Once in the garage, I took the car keys off the wall and opened the trunk. There under the blanket was the old metal box. Just as I remembered. Worn and rusty. I used the key to open it. I found pictures, postcards, notes and many trinkets like a candy necklace and a lace hankie. There were some loose coins and a few bills. I read through some papers and it was like I was right there back with Grandad. A lot of what he wrote about I was there and didn't even know. He had helped so many people. From jumping cars to delivering groceries, paying for braces and medical bills, even taking a neighbor girl to the father and daughter dance because her father was away at war.

Kindness matters was written on one note.

I noticed the bottom of the box was loose. I pulled a corner and there was a hidden section of the box. I pulled out an envelope with a cashiers check and a note inside. I quickly shoved it into my pocket. I took all the change and small bills I had and placed them in the box before closing and locking the lid.

I decided on the way back to Grandads to make Patch a plate of food. At the front door, I bent down to take off my mud-caked boots. My mud-caked boots! It hit me I would have never seen the beauty in that backyard if I hadn't been willing to get dirty and do a little work. Grandad was teaching me still.

I anxiously knocked on Patch's front door. He didn't answer. No surprise. I left the plate of food and the envelope on a side table on the porch. I heard him open the door once I was across the street. I turned to watch him sit on a porch rocker and taste the food. He looked content. He picked up the envelope, read it, then looked inside. Tears streamed down his face. I turned and walked back to Grandads.

It was a good day. I will always miss my Grandad. But he will always live with me in my memories. And he will always be teaching me, like today. I took the envelope with the cashiers check and note to Patch per Grandads instructions. The short scribbled note inside the envelope said, “Patch, I want you to keep Evie's garden.” It was signed live well, your neighbor and friend, Thomas.

I finally understood what Grandad meant about helping miracles along. Today I walked with my Grandad again. Together we helped a miracle happen, and I saw the beauty in the beast.

*This actually a story shared by my father about his father (my great grandfather) dating back to the fifties in England.