The Deepest Love...

My paternal grandfather, C. A. Baltimore, was amongst the elite class of forefront Belgian deep-sea divers in the early 1920s. A World War I Commercial Naval Diver that was trained in military bomb disposal. Otherwise known as an Ammunition Technician with core knowledge on how to safely neutralize munition planted deep within the sea beds often aimed to obliterate submarines and naval fleet. Though fascinated with such an underwater odyssey, it’s a running family rumor that he refused to wear the outlandishly heavy standard diving dress that was customary in that era, if he could avoid the custom. As much as he enjoyed the demands of his underwater duties with the Navy…he always had his heart set on being a free diver. He had awesome lung capacity and could hold his breath for up to 30 minutes without underwater apparatus while diving as deep as 150 feet in some of the coldest waters and that was his claim to fame.

During a particularly warm Thanksgiving evening when I was 12 years old, my Dad began to reminisce his father and his legacy with deliberate words, while large tears brimmed his eyes as he stood at the head of the dinner table with carving utensils in hand. Grandpa Cy always carved the turkey before he said grace each year, thanking God for the bounty. Now, Dad stood in his place and spoke, “Lord…thank you. Thank you for your provision. Thank you for grace. We are thankful for so much…” I happened to glance up and Dad’s eyes met mine and what I saw for the very first time in the 12 years I have known my Dad, was a very deep sadness reflecting back to me through the windows of his eyes. No one saw the way Dad was looking at me in that small two minutes. Grandma Junie’s head was bowed, so was Mom’s and my sister Roxie’s too. Although I was too young to understand exactly why Dad had chosen to show this particular vulnerability to me, I was receptive and never looked away. I never recalled Dad finishing the prayer with a standard “Amen” although he continued while starting to slowly carve, “Cyril Aubrey Baltimore was always the best turkey carver…darn stubborn about lettin’ anyone else do it. If it weren’t for that stubbornness…I might still have a father. Although, he used it to fuel his determination to be the best at what he did, Ole Cy might’ve been here to…”

“That’s ENOUGH, Cy Jr.!” Grandma Junie snapped. “Enough somber talk. Let’s eat…the children are hungry.”

Thanksgiving dinner was eaten without much fanfare or festive conversation that normally decorates such an occasion. Besides Dad’s mild foray into an emotional nostalgic rant, only a random, “The turkey is sure moist” from Mom is about all I can recall along with the sound of chewing and sipping. There wasn’t even Grandma Junie’s scrumptious peach cobbler gracing the table this year…everything was dry, right along with the conversation.

“Are we having dessert, Grandma? Can I have ice cream?”, Roxie chirped.

“There’s no ice cream dear, but I think there might be an unopened package of your favorites in the pantry…some strawberry cream-filled sandwich cookies”, Grandma Junie replied patiently in a way that denoted she knew she’d disappointed the grandchildren this year.

“There’s plenty sweets at home, Rox! Stop being such a brat…you already eat too much sugar.” I said sharply looking at Roxie with a frown and in defense of Grandma Junie.

Roxie stared at me with an unimpressed smirk. The entire ambiance was dry. Such dryness wasn’t because finances were absent in our family. Not for Dad, who was a senior partner at his engineering firm and neither Mom, who’d gotten by quite well as a university dean for most of her career. And, Grandma Junie? Well, she certainly wasn’t left wanting when Grandpa Cyril passed, and that was no secret. He’d left her their spacious 7-bedroom Tudor-style home replete with all the trimmings of comfort anyone could ever desire. Amongst those trimmings was an underground wine cellar that spanned the full foundation of the house that contained ports and wines aged back as far back as 1910 that Grandpa Cy collected on his various deep sea diving travels around the world. There was also a sprawling indoor, Olympic-sized pool that was custom-built to be 17-feet deep on one end for Grandpa Cy to practice his diving and breath-holding exercises. Let me not forget to mention the double tennis courts, manicured maze gardens on both west and east sides of the house, what more? So, so much more. However, more than anything…Grandpa Cy left Grandma Junie lots of money. He loved June Ella Baltimore (nee Gregory).

As Ms. Lia, Grandma Junie’s assistant and maid for the better part of 18 years, began to clear the table and graciously ask if anyone would like her to prepare leftover containers to be taken home, I told Grandma Junie that I’d be staying with her for the remaining of my Thanksgiving break from school. “I’m staying with you, Grandma; I don’t want to be bored at home with Mom & Dad…may I?” She smiled knowingly and nodded her head in approval. We had always been close. Always been a special link of understanding between she and I…a connection. It’s not that she didn’t love Roxie in that same special way, she did. It’s just that I’m her son’s first child. The first born to her only son…her only child. I was born just 21 days after Grandpa Cy crossed the veil and I overheard Mom telling one of her friends during their afternoon tea time one day, that Grandma Junie believed Grandpa Cy had decided to come back to her through me. She strongly believed that I was Grandpa Cy’s reincarnation.

After leftover bags of Thanksgiving dinner had been packed for Mom & Dad to take home and warm hugs had been exchanged in the foyer, Mom reminded me that I’d be picked up the coming Sunday in order to be prepared for school the following week. With a slight wince, I acknowledged the reminder. Being at Grandma Junie’s was like a learning experience expressly because of Grandpa Cy and the prevalence of his energy that was still so strong in their home, despite him no longer being present in body. I wasted no time with my inquiries about him and the fond mystery of this man whose DNA coursed not only my veins, but also my physical features. Dad often said he was astounded at my birth to witness that I had the replica of his father’s crimson hair and jade green eyes.

“Grandma, what fascinated you most about Grandpa? Why did you fall for him?” I asked her eagerly but, she pondered in thought for about a minute before answering me, as her facial expression mildly brightened.

“Cyril was a mysterious being. He was as mysterious as the depths of ocean he loved to dive. He always carried a small, palm-sized black book that he kept on his person no matter where he’d go, even during each dive. He’d randomly take the little black book out of his breast pocket of his jacket and quickly jot…”

“Jot what? Did he ever show you?”, I asked curiously with a hint of childlike impatience.

“That’s the mystery…nobody ever knew what he jotted; he was stubborn. Very stubborn. That is the one thing about him he refused to share. Besides that, your grandpa was quite the generous and loving man…dedicated to both duty and family.”

“Can you tell me about…?” I began to persist with more curiosity when Grandma Junie cut me off, “It’s past your bedtime young man, enough for tonight. Lia has prepared your room with fresh linens and your bathroom has fresh towels…don’t forget to brush and floss before bed.”

I leaned to give Grandma Junie a peck on her cheek and turned to head up to my prepared room to bed, my mind was spinning with thoughts of this mysterious black book that Grandpa Cy imperviously guarded. What could he have possibly been writing at such random intervals? And, why did he feel the need to take it with him around the world on his deep-sea excursions? The questions tugged at my psyche so to a point that I couldn’t fall asleep easily and I was determined to understand the mystery of Grandpa Cy and his little black book.

The night whizzed past and I can’t even remember if I had a dream, because to me…my life was a dream just being at grandma and grandpa’s. I hopped up from the bed and before I could make it halfway down the hallway and down the steps, a familiarly pleasant smell overtook my nostrils. The smell of Grandma Junie’s peach cobbler. The same peach cobbler she didn’t bake for Thanksgiving this year…she was downstairs baking just for me. My heart leaped inside of me as I picked up my pace and ran downstairs to the kitchen where I was met with what seemed to be a spread for a kid that just swam oceans and won the top medal in a triathlon.

“Sit down, my love. Good morning, did you sleep well?” Grandma Junie was already seated at the table awaiting my arrival and the look on her face told me she was ready to tell me something heavy; although, I couldn’t determine exactly what. She sat for half a minute and stared at me across the table…a stare somewhat the same as the way Dad had stared at me the evening before when Dad had looked at me with that deep sadness in his eyes.

“Honey, take this.” Grandma Junie glided a little black book slowly across the table to me and instinctively, I knew it was thee book.

“Your Grandpa Cy retired from diving for the Navy 15 years before you were born. After he retired from duty, he began to travel around the world and compete as a free diver for large cash prizes that pretty much afforded us much of what you see here. The luxuries your grandpa embellished on me and left for me, he did so with his nimble diving abilities. He was the best at what he did.” Grandma Junie paused and looked down in her lap, then continued, “Open the book, Cyril. When your grandpa learned that your mother and father were expecting you…he was so overjoyed that he couldn’t contain his excitement over you. He didn’t think he’d ever be a grandpa because your parents weren’t in a hurry to start a family. It was as if he was a young man again; the news of a new member coming into the family gave him some sort of renewed vigor.” She spoke with a smile but, sadness still pronounced in her soft eyes.

“Grandma, why isn’t Grandpa Cy here anymore? Is that why you’re sad?”, I asked her quietly.

“Your grandfather, my dear Cyril, entered a free dive, breath-holding competition at 230 feet deep. He only needed to locate 7 yellow flags on the earth bed and bring them to surface within 45 minutes. I never wanted him to enter that competition because although he was in great shape, there was far too much at stake. Cy was already 72 years old and your mother was pregnant with you and due to give birth to you only 2 to 3 weeks out…I was afraid to lose him.”

Grandma Junie was still looking down in her lap and tears were streaming as she continued to talk without much emotion. “He wouldn’t listen to any of us. Your dad begged him not to enter the competition and I pleaded, too. But Cy was stubborn. He insisted on winning that $20,000 prize money for his new grandchild and he drowned in the process. That little black book you’re holding…in it is the account number with the $20,000 he won, and it is in your name.”