My Journal #2

Working for the Summer

I don't know when I first worked out side of babysitting. I do remember the first actual job I had.
I have to back up here a little. It was the mid '60s', I was probably around 13 or so. My grandfather got in a kick about me getting a job. That I was old enough to work. He'd worked at a young age, I should learn what it was to have a good work ethic. I don't believe he used that word, he wouldn't know what it meant, but that was the jist.

My grandmother tried to quiet him down but he would have none of it. He went on to tell me his children, including my father worked when they were young and had money to support themselves, I should learn to do the same. I don't remember if this went all the whole few weeks I was there as I have dismissed most of it from my mind.

What I do remember is the following year I got a job picking beans. I went with a bunch of kids to the bean fields and got my bag and began to pull beans. I learned one big lesson. Never get more than two feet from your bag.  I left my bag, 3/4 full and went back to get my water bottle. When I turned around my bag was gone. Someone stole the beans I'd picked. I wanted to cry. I was frustrated. I had worked hard for that bag and now someone would get paid for my mistake.  I started over and I never let my bag out of my sight.

The next time I visited my grandparents I told my grandfather about that job and that I worked for weeks and got paid. He didn't really respond. He pretty much ignored me.

That was until some time later after he was diagnosed with stomach cancer. I spent a spring vacation with he and grandma. We went around looking and trying out commercial juicers.  Just before he died, he called me to his room. Dad and Grandma said he had something bothering him and wanted to talk to me.

I went to his room. He was literally skin and bone from the robust man I knew. I didn't know what to say to him. He'd never made any real connection with me as I was a girl.  He called me to come close and took my hand. He had tears in his eyes and he recalled the conversation we had about me working. He talked about how hard he'd been on me and when I came to tell him I did the bean picking job, he blew it off.  He told me he was sorry. That he was proud I had done the job. He was sorry for the way he treated me over the years and that as his oldest grandchild he should have been a better granddad. He wanted to make sure I'd forgiven him.

I loved my grandfather because he was man enough to accept he'd made a mistake and wanted to make it right. How could I not forgive him? It made me forgive the other things that happened through the years he was alive.

He was my grandfather, one half of the fun I had when I visited them. He wore his hair in a crew cut and would jump if I came up quietly and barely touched the tips of his hair. He said it felt like a shock.  I don't know if it did in reality or if it was his way of connecting and giving us kids something to do to him.