GRANDMA METHUSELAH

Grandma Methuselah lived at the end of the street, where the dirt road hazily met its terminus in the patchy, open fields.  Her home was weathered, the oak trees clustered around it thick and old as time.  She’d sit out on her porch in the evening, nursing a warm cup of tea and simply soaking in her surroundings.  Never once did I see her in a mood other than contentedness.  She was always kind – offering a wave of her hand and a gentle smile as the other neighborhood kids and I passed on one of our treasure hunts or pirate raids or secret wars.  On our return home in the evenings, she’d offer us freshly baked pastries or mugs of hot chocolate, and she’d tell us stories of her youth – a time that seemed so long ago.  She was, perhaps, the kindest old lady to ever grace this earth.

My parents would always tell me to be kind to Grandma Methuselah.  They said that she’d always been in the community, and that she had helped so many people build the easy, comfortable lives that they lived.  To them, she deserved all of the kindness and love a Blood-Grandmother should receive.  She deserved respect.  She was our matriarch – our medicine woman, our saint and our greatest friend.  Under her watchful eye, never once did anything bad befall us.  In fact, I’m almost positive that, in my time that I spent growing up in that town, not a single terrible thing ever happened.

As I grew older, I began to work, and so did my friends.  Gradually, we grew apart – always too busy helping support our families, never having time to venture into the fields or the thick woodlands anymore.  Yet, every day, I would stop by Grandma Methuselah’s house on my way home to hear her stories and give her company.  She would tell me of times when the oaks near her home were so small that the grass was taller.  She’d tell me of days when the forest, now a hike away, had stretched into what were now our fields, and how they’d been alive with all sorts of animals – big and small alike.  She’d detail a world so different and alien from our own, so old and full of wonder and life, where farms were no more than gardens and people lived happily, even when separate from each other.  The way she described everything was beautiful – her imagery so incredibly believable that it seemed as if she had actually been in those places at those times.  After her tales, I would thank her, and hug her, and promise to come the next day.  I never once broke that promise.

Whenever holidays came around, I would invite Grandma Methuselah to my family’s home, where she’d be welcomed with open arms.  Year after year, she would be there on Easter and Christmas and Thanksgiving, each time joining in the laughter and the warmth of geniality.  Before festivities, I would go to her home and bask in the scents of pies and pastries, the heady haze an intoxicating whirl of savory, sensual pleasure, and I would help her carry her incredibly well-crafted confectionery masterpieces to my home for everyone to enjoy.  Grandma Methuselah came to be a part of our family, and I felt closer to her than to anyone else in the world.  She became my best friend, my teacher and my confidant.

As I grew into my late teens, I began to help her with her home.  In the summers, I would cut her grass and help her sow seeds in her garden.  In the fall, I would help her harvest the ripe fruits and vegetables she had grown, a veritable feast to ensue in the coming months.  Through all, she would tell me more and more of her stories, never the same and always just as beautifully crafted and enchanting as the foods she made.

When I discovered my first love, it was Grandma Methuselah that helped me choose the perfect gift to give the girl.  When that love faded, it was Grandma Methuselah who told me not to fret – that there’d be someone else out there for me.  Whenever something wrong happened, Grandma Methuselah was always there to offer an encouraging word – and I became so accustomed to her support – even to the point where I never took it for granted.

I was seventeen when Grandma Methuselah refused to come to my home for Christmas dinner.

At first, I was hurt, but upon one of my daily visits, she informed me that it wasn't because she no longer enjoyed them, nor was it because there was anything wrong.  Instead, she had something special planned for us – just me and her – and she requested that I simply come visit that night after dinner was finished.

I ate dinner with my family – an odd melancholy looming beneath our happiness at the distinct emptiness of one seat.  Afterward, I packed up a number of leftovers upon my mother’s request and I began the trek to Grandma Methuselah’s home, down the snowy streets and shrouded in the flurries.

I arrived to find her home bright and warm and welcoming as always.  As I pushed open the door, I recognized the scent of freshly baked cookies mingling with that of chamomile tea.  A few minutes later, and we were seating ourselves in her living room, occupying the two chairs that faced the brightly decorated pine tree on the opposite side.  I watched as the tea sluiced from the pot and splashed into the cup she had provided me.  Excited and full, but not wanting to seem rude, I idly began to chew on one of the cookies I had plucked from the nearby tray.  Grandma Methuselah seated herself beside me.

“You’ve been so kind to me over these years,” she said, “and, while kindness in return is a respectable thing, you have proven that it is more than that.  I have loved you as I loved my own children, and you loved me in return.”  She smiled.  I had never heard that she had had children before but, then again, I had never thought to breach the subject, in fear of opening old wounds.  She glanced toward the tree.  “I wanted to have this alone time with you because I got you a very special present for Christmas – something incredibly rare and infinitely useful.  Why don’t you go over there and retrieve it?”

I could tell that my face was a mixture of slight embarrassment and absolute giddiness.  My family was fine off, and we lived comfortably, but rarely did we receive special presents, even for Christmas.  I rose from the seat and walked over to the tree.

There, beneath the low-hanging boughs weighed down by hand-crafted decorations, I saw the present – a small, ornately-wrapped box with a wide golden bow on top.  I clasped it with the utmost care, afraid to break what might be inside.  Carefully, I returned to my seat.

Grandma Methuselah smiled at me, “Go ahead, dear.  Open it.”

Cautiously, I pulled the drawstring of the bow and watched as it fell to the side.  I unwrapped the covering to reveal a soft, weather-beaten box.  I unhinged the metal clasp, flipped the top upward and peered inside.

There was nothing.

I looked to Grandma Methuselah, trying to hide my disappointment.  She glanced down, still smiling, and then her eyes came back to mine.  “Do you like it, dear?”

I stared at her quietly, then whispered, “There’s nothing here…”

She smiled and placed a wrinkled hand upon my own.  “My dear, of course there is, the rarest and most useful of all things in life - time.”  I glanced back into the box and smiled.  Though, at the time, I did not fully understand what Grandma Methuselah had done for me – what she had done to me – I was thankful for her offering and her seeming lesson.  I cherished that box, and still have it to this day.

But why am I telling you this now?  Why regale you with stories of an old man’s youth in which his best friend was an elderly woman who taught him all about life and love and humanity?

Because today is my one-hundred-and-sixty-seventh birthday – less than two months away from the one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of my opening of the box.  If you could see me, you wouldn't see a skeleton with skin on it or a pile of dust – you would see a man who appears comfortably in his early sixties, who is content with life and most things within it.  Most things…

My only fear, now, is how long.  I've seen my parents pass away and my siblings.  I've acted witness to the funerals of the children of my old neighborhood, my friends and cohorts.  I've even seen my past wives and children pass on.  I wonder how long I have left… for the only person who remains from my past is an old friend – one who gave me a gift on Christmas eve a very, very long time ago, in a place that no longer exists.