No One Said Dreams Were Cheap

My first memory of my grandfather is a ridiculous one. He was upset I had left the water running in the front lawn all day. You may think “Wait a minute, but isn’t water on lawns a good thing?” Which for the record, you are correct. But a bored four year old on a hot summer day could care less about lawn care and more about making a river system within it, full of deep canals and currents strong enough to carry my marbles and army men downstream.

He scolded me for leaving it on and rambled about grass seeds and water bills, all things that had seemingly no affect (in my opinion) on a thriving river system he now had trailing through the yard. Yes, maybe having a delta that led out into the street wasn’t the best planning but that was out of my jurdistction.

He suggested I help him with the small koi pond he was building in the backyard for my grandma. It wasn’t quite the same watershed vision I had for my river but he let me add some of my marbles to the gravel and let me pick out the fish so it worked out alright.

“Putting that mind to good use” he said

That was the thing about grandpa, he supported my creativity but insisted it make sense occasionally. It was something that made each of my summers with him memorable, and overtly stimulating for a child’s mind that was seemingly overly curious.

Unfortunately this led to him having the odd task of helping me reassemble the vacuum when I tore it apart at age eleven. And helping me with last minute science projects all throughout middle school and high school. And my mothers favorite of me running away on an adventure in search of frogs...I was found hours later in a culvert with exactly 13 frogs and one toad in my backpack. It all got summed up to my “inability to think things through” and “poor planning”.

When I was 13 and had a mind that seemed to jump from one crazy idea to another, bull riding, fencing, pro-basketball, a trip to Peru, even crochet at one point. So on a hot summer day spent chasing screaming cicadas, the last day before I left to go back to my parents house, he pulled me inside. He handed me a little black book, it had a smooth hard cover with lined pages inside, small enough to fit in a large pocket. A little black book that begged to be written in.

“Next time you get one of your wild ideas, write it down, plan it out. And it will keep your mind and hands busy too. Bring it with ya when you come stay during the summers and share whatcha been up to.”

I liked the idea of it. Making a journal of sorts, but in my own way withdrawings, diagrams, and photographs. All the plans I had, projects to work on, places to see. Better yet, I could fill it up and share it with him.

With a wrap sheet like mine, I was surprised by his response when I said I wanted to study abroad in Cusco, Peru when I was 20. I had come to stay half of my spring break with him, I wanted to show him the journal I had filled with all my plans, interests, even my passport ready to be stamped. I even brought over the information packets and scholarships I had applied for, he needed to know that I was serious.

“That sounds like a good plan there, Mikey.” And he got up to leave the room.

“Well wait, you don’t think I should...I dunno finish regular college or something?” I stammered, surprised at his immediate acceptance.

His only response was a gruff “Hhhmmph!” as I heard him opening and closing the wooden drawers of his roll top desk in his office.

I followed after him leaned against the threshold of his office while flipped through papers in the dark.

He turned around and had a handful of black books. A few of them were mine that I had filled entirely through my teenage years. But there were also some that I didn’t immediately recognize.

“You wouldn’t believe it but I had just about the same idea when I was your age, that’s how I ended up staying in Italy for five years before I met your grandmother… I wanted to give you your old journals for you to reflect on, and give you the ones I had filled out on my travels. It might be useless to you, but I believe we share the same traveling and busy mind.” His wrinkled face smiled as he handed the stack to me.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and added one more journal to the stack, “Reflect but don’t stay in the past too long, make sure you’re present for the next adventure that might come your way.”

He died on a normal day. I don’t mean to be generic but that is exactly how the day felt. Normal. A mid July day, I remember I was outside washing my car when I got the news. Mutted music blaired from speakers as I scrubbed off baked on bugs from my grill. My mother rushed out from the house, the bang of the screen door started me and I turned around hoping I hadn’t left the burner on (again).

The blood-drained look on her face revealed it was a much more serious situation than that of my forgetfulness.

“Grandpa’s been taken to the hospital.” Her eyes were wide with shock and clouded with tears.

“Why? Which one? We have to go now.” I shouted

“Sacred Heart, the one in the downtown. He...he’s had another stoke...it’s…”

I threw away the sponge and hose into the lawn “Mom, get in the car we’re going”

She pushed her hair back away from her face and held her neck, still had the panicked cloudiness over her eyes as she entered the passenger door. I already had the car in gear and took off before she could shut the door. It wasn’t until hours later that I remember I had left the hose running. Days later, we summed up the water bill to once again my old teenage forgetfulness.

Weeks passed, if you asked me to remember anything about that time, I couldn’t. I went through the motions and did my best to appear present. But my mind clung to those summers I had spent with him, rerunning them in my mind in an endless loop. I know at some point I returned to this reality, it was more lonesome here than it was painful for me.

Suddenly, it was a late September day, I was outside raking leaves at grandpas old place, my mother was putting it on the market and wanted the front lawn to look “nice”. I came inside looking for trash bags to stuff the leaves in when my mother walked in with a massive and worn suitcase.

“Found it! I think this is the one Grandpa left for you in his Will!”

I looked at the rusted buckles and stained leather, “Well it sure is in pristine condition” I laughed as I returned to looking for the trash bags under the sink.

“Yeah...it’s got a lock on it too,” she tried in vain to pull it open, “well that’s lame.”

“Wait, a lock?” I asked, suddenly intrigued

“Sure thing, the old man had so many keys too, who knows which one it belongs to.” She shrugged as she set it down at my feet.

“Actually...I’m pretty sure I know where it is.” I grabbed the suitcase and rushed outside to my car.

I got sucked into my mental timewarp again and I honestly have no idea how I successfully drove the car home, my mind was racing a mile a minute, reeling with the possibilities of the contents of the mysterious suitcase. Finally, another piece of him I could hold onto, whatever was inside was beyond me. I was just thrilled to have one more thing to hold onto, one more thing for him to share with me.

I returned home and went straight for his old journals he had given me. Inside one, I had noticed that there was a key taped to the inside of the cover. I had previously dismissed it as just a momento he had, but now it seemed obvious it was for the suitcase.

My fingers scrambled as I freed it from the book and fumbled the lock open. The rusted buckles and hinges were forced open, the leather cracking at the sudden movement.

Inside was a thick yellow envelope and a black notebook, it had the same clean and unused look as the one he gave me years ago. Another glossy cover with lined pages begging to be filled. On top was a letter written in his terrible handwriting.

“Pick your story. Write about it. Share it.”

Next to it was one of my Peru pamphlets, it was crinkled as if it had been shoved through the cracks of the locked suitcase. I had canceled all my Peruvian plans after he had passed, I had forgotten how badly I wanted to go. My attention shifted to the yellow, bulging envelope. I picked it up, it was heavier than I anticipated, and broke the seal.

The only way I can describe what was inside was “A Buttload of Cash” which was later counted to be $20,000 (I counted over 7 times). And also another badly written note,

“No one said dreams were cheap.”

My first memory of my grandfather is a ridiculous one. He was upset I had left the water running in the front lawn all day. You may think “Wait a minute, but isn’t water on lawns a good thing?” Which for the record, you are correct. But a bored four year old on a hot summer day could care less about lawn care and more about making a river system within it, full of deep canals and currents strong enough to carry my marbles and army men downstream.

He scolded me for leaving it on and rambled about grass seeds and water bills, all things that had seemingly no affect (in my opinion) on a thriving river system he now had trailing through the yard. Yes, maybe having a delta that led out into the street wasn’t the best planning but that was out of my jurdistction.

He suggested I help him with the small koi pond he was building in the backyard for my grandma. It wasn’t quite the same watershed vision I had for my river but he let me add some of my marbles to the gravel and let me pick out the fish so it worked out alright.

“Putting that mind to good use” he said

That was the thing about grandpa, he supported my creativity but insisted it make sense occasionally. It was something that made each of my summers with him memorable, and overtly stimulating for a child’s mind that was seemingly overly curious.

Unfortunately this led to him having the odd task of helping me reassemble the vacuum when I tore it apart at age eleven. And helping me with last minute science projects all throughout middle school and high school. And my mothers favorite of me running away on an adventure in search of frogs...I was found hours later in a culvert with exactly 13 frogs and one toad in my backpack. It all got summed up to my “inability to think things through” and “poor planning”.

When I was 13 and had a mind that seemed to jump from one crazy idea to another, bull riding, fencing, pro-basketball, a trip to Peru, even crochet at one point. So on a hot summer day spent chasing screaming cicadas, the last day before I left to go back to my parents house, he pulled me inside. He handed me a little black book, it had a smooth hard cover with lined pages inside, small enough to fit in a large pocket. A little black book that begged to be written in.

“Next time you get one of your wild ideas, write it down, plan it out. And it will keep your mind and hands busy too. Bring it with ya when you come stay during the summers and share whatcha been up to.”

I liked the idea of it. Making a journal of sorts, but in my own way withdrawings, diagrams, and photographs. All the plans I had, projects to work on, places to see. Better yet, I could fill it up and share it with him.

With a wrap sheet like mine, I was surprised by his response when I said I wanted to study abroad in Cusco, Peru when I was 20. I had come to stay half of my spring break with him, I wanted to show him the journal I had filled with all my plans, interests, even my passport ready to be stamped. I even brought over the information packets and scholarships I had applied for, he needed to know that I was serious.

“That sounds like a good plan there, Mikey.” And he got up to leave the room.

“Well wait, you don’t think I should...I dunno finish regular college or something?” I stammered, surprised at his immediate acceptance.

His only response was a gruff “Hhhmmph!” as I heard him opening and closing the wooden drawers of his roll top desk in his office.

I followed after him leaned against the threshold of his office while flipped through papers in the dark.

He turned around and had a handful of black books. A few of them were mine that I had filled entirely through my teenage years. But there were also some that I didn’t immediately recognize.

“You wouldn’t believe it but I had just about the same idea when I was your age, that’s how I ended up staying in Italy for five years before I met your grandmother… I wanted to give you your old journals for you to reflect on, and give you the ones I had filled out on my travels. It might be useless to you, but I believe we share the same traveling and busy mind.” His wrinkled face smiled as he handed the stack to me.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and added one more journal to the stack, “Reflect but don’t stay in the past too long, make sure you’re present for the next adventure that might come your way.”

He died on a normal day. I don’t mean to be generic but that is exactly how the day felt. Normal. A mid July day, I remember I was outside washing my car when I got the news. Mutted music blaired from speakers as I scrubbed off baked on bugs from my grill. My mother rushed out from the house, the bang of the screen door started me and I turned around hoping I hadn’t left the burner on (again).

The blood-drained look on her face revealed it was a much more serious situation than that of my forgetfulness.

“Grandpa’s been taken to the hospital.” Her eyes were wide with shock and clouded with tears.

“Why? Which one? We have to go now.” I shouted

“Sacred Heart, the one in the downtown. He...he’s had another stoke...it’s…”

I threw away the sponge and hose into the lawn “Mom, get in the car we’re going”

She pushed her hair back away from her face and held her neck, still had the panicked cloudiness over her eyes as she entered the passenger door. I already had the car in gear and took off before she could shut the door. It wasn’t until hours later that I remember I had left the hose running. Days later, we summed up the water bill to once again my old teenage forgetfulness.

Weeks passed, if you asked me to remember anything about that time, I couldn’t. I went through the motions and did my best to appear present. But my mind clung to those summers I had spent with him, rerunning them in my mind in an endless loop. I know at some point I returned to this reality, it was more lonesome here than it was painful for me.

Suddenly, it was a late September day, I was outside raking leaves at grandpas old place, my mother was putting it on the market and wanted the front lawn to look “nice”. I came inside looking for trash bags to stuff the leaves in when my mother walked in with a massive and worn suitcase.

“Found it! I think this is the one Grandpa left for you in his Will!”

I looked at the rusted buckles and stained leather, “Well it sure is in pristine condition” I laughed as I returned to looking for the trash bags under the sink.

“Yeah...it’s got a lock on it too,” she tried in vain to pull it open, “well that’s lame.”

“Wait, a lock?” I asked, suddenly intrigued

“Sure thing, the old man had so many keys too, who knows which one it belongs to.” She shrugged as she set it down at my feet.

“Actually...I’m pretty sure I know where it is.” I grabbed the suitcase and rushed outside to my car.

I got sucked into my mental timewarp again and I honestly have no idea how I successfully drove the car home, my mind was racing a mile a minute, reeling with the possibilities of the contents of the mysterious suitcase. Finally, another piece of him I could hold onto, whatever was inside was beyond me. I was just thrilled to have one more thing to hold onto, one more thing for him to share with me.

I returned home and went straight for his old journals he had given me. Inside one, I had noticed that there was a key taped to the inside of the cover. I had previously dismissed it as just a momento he had, but now it seemed obvious it was for the suitcase.

My fingers scrambled as I freed it from the book and fumbled the lock open. The rusted buckles and hinges were forced open, the leather cracking at the sudden movement.

Inside was a thick yellow envelope and a black notebook, it had the same clean and unused look as the one he gave me years ago. Another glossy cover with lined pages begging to be filled. On top was a letter written in his terrible handwriting.

“Pick your story. Write about it. Share it.”

Next to it was one of my Peru pamphlets, it was crinkled as if it had been shoved through the cracks of the locked suitcase. I had canceled all my Peruvian plans after he had passed, I had forgotten how badly I wanted to go. My attention shifted to the yellow, bulging envelope. I picked it up, it was heavier than I anticipated, and broke the seal.

The only way I can describe what was inside was “A Buttload of Cash” which was later counted to be $20,000 (I counted over 7 times). And also another badly written note,

“No one said dreams were cheap.”