My Chinese Grandma
When I go to the Dollar Store—which is infrequent— it for one of two purposes: to stock up on inexpensive but colorful party or holiday supplies, or to buy inexpensive but colorful toys and art supplies for my three grandkids. With less than ten bucks I can come up with a week’s worth of fun—water balloons, nerf pistols, colored markers, silly hats and masks, those googley plastic eyes which the kids can glue on all sorts of fruits and vegetables to create characters for movies.
The Dollar Store is located in a neighborhood where there are a good number of street people, many of whom frequent the store. There are also people who are unemployed or under-employed who shop there for everyday items and food, hoping to stretch their dollars.
It was one of those infrequent trips that I noticed an old Asian woman, hunched over, arthritic limbs twisted, breathing heavily, steadying herself with a cane down at the other end of the aisle. She moved slowly, in obvious discomfort with every tiny step she was able to manage, huffing and puffing. She was searching for an item in the health care products, and a young cashier happened by. The old Asian woman asked if they had any Vick’s Vaporub ointment. The cashier was in a hurry, and she pointed vaguely up the aisle, saying that if they had any it would be down yonder.
The old woman started shuffling in my direction, moving very slowly, and obviously in pain. It seemed that her every step was excruciating. I walked down the aisle and approached her. I figured that her eyesight probably wasn’t much better than the rest of her, so I told I would help her look for the ointment. I searched the shelves up and down and back and forth. Try as I may, I couldn’t find any Vick’s Vaporub.
She was very disappointed, and I felt bad for her. I did find an off-brand product that seemed similar, but not Vick’s Vaporub. She took it resignedly, thanked me, and hobbled off.
I finished my shopping, checked out, and as I drove away. I felt sorry for the poor lady. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that whatever the substitute was, the old woman would feel it was not equal to the brand that she depended on for the relief of her constant pain. It would be like substituting an old friend with a stranger. I knew it wouldn’t work for her.
Just across the street from the Dollar Store, I noticed a RiteAid pharmacy. I pulled into the parking lot, ran into the pharmacy, and quickly found a jar of Vick’s Vaporub. I hurried to the check stand, paid for it, jumped in the car, and drove back to the Dollar Store hoping that the old lady was still there.
In fact, I pulled to the curb just as she was limping out and away from the Dollar Store. The engine running, I climb out of the car and took the jar to her. “Here you go, m’am.”
She was so grateful. She reached for her purse. “No thanks, m’am, this is my gift.” She gave me something better than cash. She gave me a big hug, and whispered, “I will pray for you, son.”
“And I will pray for you,” I answered. And I did, and she did.
That is not the end of the story.
When I got home, it was fire up the chainsaw time. I must confess that there is a deeply traumatic history between me and my chainsaw, and all gas-powered yard devices that I have ever owned. A grim history of frustration, heartbreak, and betrayal. And cuss words. Lots and lots of cuss words.
I did not expect much than more of the same agony as I dusted off my chainsaw after its long hibernation and checkered past. My shoulder was already aching, before I even pulled the starter cord.
But I had a thought. I said a prayer for my Chinese grandma, praying that she would have a good day, a better day. And I prayed that she would pray for my fricking chainsaw to start. Following the start instructions—as I always do—I gave it a sharp pull. Damn—the thing jumped to life on the first tug.
I gunned the engine so that it wouldn’t stall. Because it always stalled, often ending the job before it was done. Then I hurried to the woodpile, cutting at full tilt. I finished that job, and it was still running. So I went to the next pile, and the next, and the next. It was like my saw was on overdrive. It really seemed it lasted as long as two tanks of gas, and it just kept going. There was no other explanation for this to happen other than that my Chinese grandma was looking out for me.
The Vaporub story happened a couple years ago, but every single time I start up a small engine, I pause and send my Chinese grandma my love, and a prayer for her health and happiness. I know she does the same.
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