To Lovers of Story Everywhere

Ms. Ella N. Buckley, age fourteen, future author of great renown;

For Mrs. Rocky’s freshman honors class “Share About Your Hero” homework.

Penned here are a few fragments of the tale of my own Great-Grampa Buck,

addressed, as he would also start many a note, letter, and essay,

'To lovers of story everywhere.'

***

The death of Charles S. Buckley, aged one-hundred-and-seven years, came as a great shock to everyone who knew the man.

He had surpassed that early stage of agedness, when closely related Buckley households started to worry, secretly, about “how long he had left.” Gone too were the years when the further-relateds and long-out-of-touch pals began to call, send letters, and stop by (concerned, needlessly, that there wouldn’t be many days left to do so). Even traverses through tombstone preferences, funeral arrangements, and legal processes as to how the old man’s ample worldly resources were to be allocated came and went. Documents were all neatly ordered, and many a free coffee and memory proffered up by old college mates and colleagues. The years rushed by at a generous pace; yet old Buck (as he was always known to me) would carry on. As a matter of fact, he would carry on long enough to outlast many of those who stopped by over the years, as well as three brothers, a daughter and son, an unfortunate grandson, and no less than four ‘last pets.’ He had reached such an age and kept such a jolly, effervescent fervor through the years that the masses eventually concluded death herself must have been overtly wary of Buck, and would probably leave the old legend alone forever.

And so when he left us at last- on the early, fog-bound dawn of May the twenty-second, seated upon a well-loved, cushy rocker, the steadfast old house cat curled up on a knee- none were less prepared than myself. At only eleven years old, your narrator had never even lost a pet. Even those old enough to pretend a grasp of mortal nature were deeply shaken; such a character as Buck just seemed made to endure.

Buck’s character cannot be expressed at all completely by me, of course. There are too many layers never revealed across the eleven short years shared between myself and my remarkable Great-Grampa. The man had fought and lasted through two wars, for goodness’ sake. These were parts of the old veteran’s journey that he kept very close to the vest. Over the years, he began to share the odd anecdote, here and there, about memorable comrades or remarkable technology encountered throughout these lost eras. Such tales became more frequent, lengthy, and profound later on, as a few fellow veterans made sure to reconnect. But so many unshared fragments of Buck’s tale are lost forever; so here what small chunks of the puzzle are known must be taken and treasured. And we must make do, and honor what wonderful, powerful, facets of Buck yet endure - however few such facets belong to my memory.

They seem almost random, the parts that do endure for us most strongly after a loved one's death. Great-Grampa’s square and very chunky spectacles, for example, are always center stage whenever a memory of the man emerges. Just so, yours truly strongly recollects many an embrace from Great-Grampa's chalk-caked hands. Before he put down the mantle of honorary Professor of Poetry at the local college, Buck’s hands would almost always be found so chalk-dusted as to create puffs of cloud whenever he clapped, waved, or gestured too fervently (all common occurrences). After he was gone, Young Ella hardly yearned for some grand, storybook-adjacent, regret-fueled last goodbye; there was no hurt to confess, nor even then a want for some last words of love or encouragement, or whatnot. My heart just wanted to feel those chalky palms once more - just wanted to peer through those goofy, lovely, square old glasses.

(Dear Mrs. Rocky - Please pay no thought to the small smudges just there on my paper. They are merely the result of a few renegade drops from my glass of water. And please excuse my shaky penwork above. A small earthquake was reported as the relevant paragraph was worked on.)

Of course, Great-Grampa Buck was a lot more to me than a man who wore overlarge glasses and had chalky hands. Most centrally, he was my fellow storyteller from the very start. Buck would always lend a deeply engaged ear to every story, small or grand, ever shared, regardless of where he was, who the teller was, or when the tale was told. Young Ella was naturally more than pleased to take advantage of such a talent; when she was a tender seven-to-ten or so, Buck’s responses to all her yarns were made up only of untempered cheers and wonderfully untrue hyperboles. (“...that’s the BEST STORY ANYONE has EVER TOLD me, dear!”)

But as the years plodded on, Great-Grampa began, gently and gradually, to offer a few more prods to tweak some of my more wayward plots for the better. He could tell, sooner than my parents, brothers, or anyone else, that puny Ella’s love of story was more than a mere phase. So Buck became not only my greatest fan, but a source of true and helpful amendment as well. Though other Buckleys assumed that Buck only acted thusly out of grandfatherly decency, he very clearly enjoyed our story-adventures together. He would often monologue to me about what made a good story, between bouts of my lengthy tales. He was more than a Great-Grandfather to me; he was my greatest support on my most beloved quest. All felt lost to me, when Buck passed on.

The moments that surrounded the funeral were a blur. Even now, no more than a scant patchwork of surreal scenes composes my memory of the day: dozens of hugs from long-forgotten members of Buckley genealogy, small mouthfuls of pasta salad whose taste was robbed by my weary detachment, my Uncle Zeke’s efforts to look helpful but not actually do much at all as we prepared food, and an almost constant stream of small pats and rubs on the back from my teary-eyed mother.

The world only started to become clear and real once more several weeks after the funeral. Even then, all seemed eternally darker. But around the three-week mark, a brown-paper-bound box fatefully turned up at our door. My mother was the one to pass the parcel on to me.

“Look what came for you today, bean!”

The term of endearment was huffed at, but the package was accepted. A small purple note was pasted to the front of the box:

Was to pass the parcel here on to you at the funeral.

Forgot between all events and such.

Please accept a hearty apology.

Hope you are well enough.

-Z

My puzzlement at the note lasted only a moment. Uncle Zeke was the only person who would compose such a strange message, or choose to autograph a note by way of just one letter.

But what would Uncle Zeke have been asked to pass on to me? My confused thoughts would not much delay the chance to open an unexpected present. There emerged from the soon-shredded paper a strange stack of objects. On top was a not-so-smoothly folded letter. At just one glance, the tempo of my heartbeat promptly doubled.

The letter was clearly penned by Buck. Buck’s scrawl was a popular subject of small talk whenever members of the Buckley clan gathered together; every word he wrote was somehow at once always perfectly readable, but unspeakably sloppy. My Great-Aunt Anna once jested that such was the case because Buck’s father had prayed that Buck would be a draftsman, but Mother Buckley had prayed he’d be a doctor. The nature of the joke eluded seven-year old Ella that day, but she elected to pompously chuckle along as everyone else guffawed.

The contents of Buck’s last letter to me must not be shared here - or anywhere, for that matter. Some moments must stay sacredly secret, after all. The other contents of the parcel, however, are deeply relevant to the greatest lesson Buck ever taught me - and shall be shared presently, as we move to conclude our journey together today.

“Weaknesses aren’t walls, El. They’re doorways.”

He was hunched on a portable camp stool that day, as sunbeams danced across the whole scene. My young self had just wept over how my shortness kept me from a medal at a recent school race. After several doses of hugs and hot chocolate, Buck had walked me to the woods to relay the greatest lesson he would ever teach me.

“Your weaknesses are not walls,” he repeated, eyes and tone full of warmth, “they’re doorways to your greatest strengths.”

The phrase was repeated on many occurrences from that fateful day onward, but none stuck so powerfully as that one. A couple of such moments are to be relayed here, of course, related as they are to that last parcel’s contents. On top of the box’s stack of objects were Great-Grampa’s beloved, chunky old spectacles. He had repeated the lesson to me one day, spectacles removed and placed on a table nearby, as he worked on a watercolor of the forest’s edge.

“Trees can be hard…you’ve got to repel the urge to get every last leaf down on the paper. Hard to get a sense of the whole scene, when all the small stuff can grab your focus.” He looked down at me bemusedly. “But take my glasses off, and suddenly that’s no problem!” Buck always asserted that all the art he produced became vastly more free and lovely after the day when he had attempted to watercolor sans glasses - a strength found through a weakness, he would say.

Underneath the glasses was a rusty chrome mouth organ; an analogous moment was bound to that strange object, too.

Carpal tunnel had stolen Grampa’s chance at cello; after lessons that lasted throughout undergrad, Buck had apparently thought about a career centered around cello mastery. Less than a month before the end of college, however, Buck's doctor dropped the bad news. Though undoubtedly a hard, forced change of plan, Buck never presented the story as bad. All he ever told me was that he was able to take up the mouth organ as he recovered from surgery - and decades later, he played that puny organ for my mom and her brothers. They apparently loved to dance along, and laughed very hard at Grampa’s funny songs.

“That’s a dear, dear moment we got to have only cause your Great-Grampa walked through a door he found at a very weak place, El.” Buck’s eyes shone whenever he told me that story.

A chuckle escaped me as the last memento emerged from the torn paper. At the bottom of the stack of objects sat Buck's grubby purple toothbrush. Undoubtedly the strangest of the three presents, the toothbrush relates to a wonderful moment when your narrator managed to offer some small, true encouragement back to the endless encourager that was her Great-Grampa. Buck’s teeth were a subject of rather major shame for the man. Absent of good dental care throughout a rough youth, Buck’s teeth suffered permanent consequences. He would jest frequently about the ‘nasty old chompers’ he had, but my mother made clear to all young Buckleys that we were never to make fun of Great-Grampa’s teeth. One day, at only four years old, a young Ella retorted to one of Buck’s jokes; after he had made some comment about ‘Grampa Buck’s monster mouth,’ the just-post-toddler me had had enough.

“Great-Grampa, your mouth’s the best ever…cause your mouth’s YOURS. We love Great-Grampa’s mouth…such a good one.”

Though my memory of the scene has not stayed crystal clear, my mother asserts that Buck’s eyes became teary that very moment. Years later, Buck thanked me for my sweet, sassy retort. He shared that the weak teeth he bore had never before that day been connected to a happy memory - but now they were. Perfect teeth are not bad, of course; but somehow, my Great-Grampa was all the better to me for the ‘nasty old chompers’ he bore. We both learned that day that some weaknesses, though they never open doors to a new chance or talent, can be good purely because they make up part of the person who bears them. Those weak teeth were a part of my Great-Grampa - and therefore to be deeply, strongly, loved. Such stands my own verbose paraphrase of how Buck later speculated on the subject, at least.

And so now the reader sees how the contents of that posthumously presented parcel each represented parts of Buck’s own self and story, and each helped teach me the greatest lesson my Grampa ever offered. He had weak eyes, weak hands, weak teeth. But each made small, funny, and very valuable doorways to a desperately strong, and eternally warm soul.

(Please overlook a few more smudges present above, Mrs. Rocky. The pen used to produce today’s homework must be rather faulty.)

Buck walked the footsteps of many roles, to many people. Such became clear at the funeral, to all those who knew not as much already. Many a eulogy was shared that day, and Buck was shown to be a great father, mentor, comrade, colleague, employer, (enemy, even - or at least, so asserted the speaker of the twelfth, unplanned eulogy at the funeral, who was ungracefully shunted offstage by Great-Aunt Anna) and more.

But to me, as has been made clear, he was the best man there could be.

He was my hero.

He was my Great-Grampa Buck.

For the one great lesson shared here today, and the dozens of others passed on over a decade of ceaseless love, Ella from across the years says thank you, dear Buck.

And thank you, reader, as you have stayed and walked through a few tales of Buck here today.

To lovers of story everywhere - may you also meet - and perhaps become - a soul as lovely as my Great-Grampa. And may you, too, always remember: your weaknesses are not walls, merely doorways.

Yours most eloquently,

Ella N. Buckley, future author of great renown, and great-granddaughter of her hero.