Just a Glass of Milk

Memoir

"No Grandpa, don't!" my five-year-old self yelled, panic rising with the milk. Hard wooden slats pressed into my back, causing me to squirm in the kitchen chair. High on the wall a clock ticked, it's beat too slow for my panicked heart. "Please, Grandpa, I hate it when you do that," I told him, my voice taking on a high pitched whine. A childish hand reached out and lightly slapped his bruised forearm. Grandpa called the bruises kisses from angels. Daddy told me they were reminders of the heart attack; back then I hadn't known what he meant. "STOP." He didn't stop.

"Say when," he told me, a slight smile on his face. Creamy milk played with the glass climbing higher and higher reaching for the brim until it threatened the antique table cloth. Above my head the hanging fruit basket trembled as if even the bananas were frightened for the fate of the table.

"Don't you worry, Pumpkin," he told me. He always called me that, and I think he must have loved pumpkin; his whole house smelt of it. Even the old orange tabby cat was named after the golden gourd. "God's hands will hold the milk in."

I scrambled forward until I was on my knees, the wood pushing uncomfortably into my legs. My whole body tipped forward until my nose was pressed against the cool glass in an attempt to see these hands of God. Grandpa's hands dangled over me, an old tattered shirt stretched over his broad frame.

"He's not there, Grandpa," I decided.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"I can't see him," I said, my mouth pulling into a frown.

"You don't see him, Heidi," he said, making my hand into a fist and placing it on my chest. "You feel him, right here."

"Grandma will be mad if the table gets wet," I said.

"Grandma won't be mad at God," he said with a chuckle. He went back to pouring. The milk came over the rim of the glass, forming a partial sphere, yet not one drop escaped.

"Even if He makes a mistake?" I asked.

"God doesn't make mistakes, Pumpkin."  He slid his chair back across the linoleum and crossed the kitchen. He returned and held out a sugar cookie for dipping.

"Don't tell your mother," he said.

"Promise," I said, and my pinky was engulfed by his scarred one. I took a great gulp from the top of the cup before I dunked the cookie. The milk wiped away the sugar until every sip of milk tasted like cookie.

I went home that afternoon, but even the rumblings of Dad's old truck beneath my feet couldn't jar loose the image of God's gnarled hands wrapped around my milk glass.  

My grandpa had always been able to explain things so I understood them. He didn’t use science, instead creating images that boggled my young mind and had me desperate to learn more of the world around me. Luckily, there were many opportunities for that.  

It filled the air as soon as the barrel was uncovered. Swirling up to penetrate the thick wooden rafters above, the scent of fresh field corn stole into every nook and crevice the old barn. Stomach pressed into the barrel's metal rim, Grandpa's hands around my waist, supporting me, I bent forward, using my hands to scoop the corn into an ice cream bucket. Grandpa filled his pail, much larger than mine, and held out a hand.

"Hand me your pail pumpkin," he said, "I'll carry it down the stairs for you." As I set off at a skip, eager to feed the deer, he shouted, "Walk, Heidi! I want to see a hand on that railing!"

Downstairs we passed under the overhead door, a new addition to the barn, and into the yard. It smelled of pine, as it always did at my grandpa's cabin. It was easy to see why, white pines, hundreds of years old, hung over the little log cabin, their needles littering the ground. The sun shone through in little patches, lighting up my blond hair until it was as if we were living in a ray of sunshine. Grandpa strode beside me, his shadow spreading across the strewn needles, three times the size of mine.