“Faster
Grandpa… Faster!” we squealed with delight loud enough to be heard for blocks. Grandpa
pushed the simple wooden go-cart from behind with an orange broomstick while
carefully chasing along with us. He gave it one final shove with all that he
had and then hopped on the platform in the back, meticulously tucking the broom
to the side of the car, carefully held in place with his left hand. The wind
gently misplaced our hair in different directions as we cruised down the
residential racetrack. The route was a straight shot but dangerous in feat due
to the high speeds in which we traveled. The sounds of the wheels crossing over
the cracks in the sidewalk clicked faster and faster as the go-cart made its
final descent towards the bottom of the mountain. Finally, the imaginary black
and white checkered flag waved the finish line at the empty field where the
sidewalk came to an end.
When the
ride had come to an inevitable halt, we remained on the go cart while my
Grandpa stood up, turned us around and pushed us along in the child size
vehicle back up the hill with the end of his broom stick. This was his endless
acts of service to us as the passengers. He hauled us upward using the full
force of his body, as we so effortlessly sat and steered the wooden box back to
the starting line. The plastic red steering wheel had a mind of its own and
could move us side to side at will but Grandpa’s strong hand behind the broom
made sure we safely arrived at the desired destination.
And so it
would begin again and again as we, the “race-team”, entered in to the fast
paced world on the go-cart, hour after hour with my Grandfather. There were
other places we could venture off to but no; the hill on Gareth Lane was the
prized route. It was familiar with sights and sounds that would lure us in to a
childhood trance of peace and security that could only be felt with Grandpa, and
his broom, as the engine that powered the mighty white go-cart.
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Recently (many
years after the death of my beloved Grandpa) I went back to Gareth Lane to view
this favorite childhood place. When I pulled up to the silent, white brick house
it did not offer the familiar “welcome” I had known for so many years. I got
out of my car and walked to the edge of the driveway to get a closer view of the
racetrack again. The path that had supplied so many hours of fun no longer
sloped with intensity; the angle was almost undetectable. There was no mountain
as I had imagined as a child. Could this be the same place?
Instinctively, I
took off running down the hill anyways. Tears streaming down my face and arms stretched out, I reached towards the sky. I longed
to feel the same love and sense of peace as I did when I was with my Grandpa. As
I glided over the cracks in the sidewalk I could almost hear an echo from the
past beating from inside my chest. He made me feel safe. He made me feel like I
was worth his time. More than anything, he made me feel loved! I am forever
grateful for the time I had with my Grandpa; he is still dearly missed.
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