Feeling Full

Why does life create these situations?

I, for one, wish someone would tell me. Is it proof that God has a good sense of humor or does it mean that the Devil could host one of those late-night talk shows? You know the shows. The ones where the host asks the guest to tell a funny personal story and then enjoys pointing out how that story is an example of what’s wrong with our society.

God may very well be a great comedian, but I’m starting to think the Devil isn’t half bad at satire. Either way, I do not like these situations. Why does life create them anyway?

It’s like the time when my neighbor went out of her way to cook me something special and told me the complete 70 year history of the family recipe. I was excited to eat her dish. She watched me with such delight as I took my first bite. My eyes started to water because I could not believe how so much flavoring could be absent from something that looked so delicious. I believe she thought I was savoring the bite because she said, “yes, it fills me up the same way.” It did fill me up, but not in the way I was hoping.

I’m sure we all have similar stories, right? A loving adult that you like a great deal thinks you would also love their favorite dish just as much as you like them. They serve you the dish and hold their hands close to their heart, almost as if they could die in that moment and be at peace. When they walk away, you just shake your head in disbelief because you don’t know how you’re going to make it through the rest of the highly-anticipated, surprisingly unsavory, special family dish.

Honestly, why does life create these situations?

Well, I am in one now. The funeral is over. After our shift from crying together to mingling with each other was complete, everyone found an immediate path to Grandma’s house. When I say everyone, I mean everyone.

I am not sure if it’s common for the United States Postal Service to deliver single sheets of Super Saver coupons on a Sunday. However, Mr. Earl, who delivers our mail, was slowly placing one sheet in every neighborhood mailbox at the exact same time we made it home from the funeral.

There were so many people outside jogging past Grandma’s house when we got home that you would think our house was a designated checkpoint at a marathon. It’s as if some universal force told every jogger to run to our home and say, “Hey! I didn’t know you were a jogger, too. Do you mind talking for the next 3 hours in one spot about your jogging history and philosophy?”

I heard that Al, who owns our local hardware store, made a fortune earlier. Lots of people stopped by his store to buy tools they seemed to recently remember borrowing from my Grandpa. Al would simply say, “Larry was like an uncle to me. He wouldn’t be caught dead having that in his garage, but let me show you something he would have.”

Grandma is loving this. She likes the whole affair because it’s funny to her. She knows that if there was any possibility that a person could roll over in a grave, this army of people coincidentally coming by the house would make Grandpa a holy roller for sure.

Actually, it’s Grandpa’s fault. Every Saturday, he would walk me to the park, feed whatever creature kept us company on that day and then pull out his little black book. He would write a few words in it, show me the words, look at me and then wink.

Nobody knew what was in his little black book. Grandpa’s neighbors didn’t know. As much as he loved his checkerboard friends, not one of them knew. Even Grandma didn’t know. It was the talk of the town. Nobody knew except me and Grandpa. Also, nobody knew I knew. At least nobody ever asked me if I knew. And based on what I do know, I don’t know how I am going to make it through the rest of this highly anticipated, unsavory day.

There were so many times people would try and talk Grandpa into revealing what was in his little black book. Let’s just say he started taking me on our Saturday walks when I was 4. I’m almost 16 now. Without fail, every Saturday someone would stroll by and ask him for a clue to what was in his little black book. Grandpa would always say ”It would be more appropriate when I’m no longer living here.” Then he would give me a wink.

Well, everyone is gathered at the house. With as much pace as possible, every dish of food people brought has been eaten. The eating created a nice chorus of compliments to the chef that echoed throughout the house. Also, laughter was provided with equal devotion to both the jokes that were good and the ones that needed a little help. Grandma's house felt full of joy.

Finally, Grandma pulls out her little black address book. First, she starts to read silently. Then she starts saying names out loud like she was either taking attendance or announcing the winners of a raffle. It took forever. Why she added even more names to this full house of people was beyond me. When she was done, she makes this phone call to Al at the hardware store. He gives her the numbers to Grandpa’s lockbox. She opens the lockbox, reaches in and hands me Grandpa's little black book.

Then it happened.

First, Pastor Fleming said he would give me twenty dollars if I let him be the first to read what was inside. Then Ms. Fleming said she would give me twenty-five dollars if she could be first. The Mayor said he would give me a hundred bucks and his favorite re-election button if he could be first. Then the phone rang. When Mr. Al said he would give me $200 and a 25% off coupon to own the book, everyone seemed to lose their mind. The amount kept going up. Along with the money, people would offer the oddest things that they hoped I would like as much as they did. Someone offered me $1000 and his lucky red paperclip from Canada.

In the middle of this sudden auction, a person who called himself Geraldo Rivera walked in and said he would give me $20,000 for Grandpa’s black book. He had all the cash in his hand. I didn’t know what to do. So, I said yes.

Mr. Rivera gave me the money and I gave him Grandpa's little black book. Everyone went silent. My stomach had this sudden empty feeling. Mr. Rivera walked over to a corner, looked inside and then slowly looked at me. His eyes watered a bit. I tried to wink like Grandpa, but I don’t think it worked the same.

Mr. Rivera stared at me for what seemed like an eternal minute and then he finally said, “ Love...yourself...first?”

I said, “Yeah. Grandpa would write that to me after every Saturday walk, show it to me and then he would wink.”

Mr. Rivera just started shaking his head while staring at the ceiling so I said, “It would always leave me feeling...full”