Penny Candy

One summer’s day, long ago, my grandfather hung the moon above our cottage by the seashore.

***

A promotional salesman by trade, he dressed to the nines, with suits smartly pressed, shoes polished to shine, and tie gently loosened, long before this was considered stylish. Grandpa felt no pressure to adapt to others’ expectations, which in a delightful twist made him a leader among men. He stood handsome while shaking hands with neighbors, clients, strangers, and friends, smiling broadly and conversing with ease; a consummate gentleman.

Grandpa worked hard without complaint, happy to live a life aimed at reducing the burdens of others. He loved lavishly, gifting his family in countless ways, without a speck of fanfare.

A penny pincher he was not. In fact, he was miffed by stinginess–a language utterly foreign to his person. In his mind, quality mattered deeply, and giving cheaply to loved ones was worse than giving nothing at all.

His restaurants of choice were exquisite–swirly background music, shiny silverware, and heavy water goblets. And his mantra? Let’s skip the fast food and enjoy a night on the town. On such evenings we relished unhurried conversation and mouthwatering food. I studied him as he studied the menu, eyes perusing the choices with an affable grin.

Once served, he took care in slicing the meat, fork turned over in one hand, the other wielding a knife while slicing tender prime rib, his thick cloth napkin tucked stiffly within his collar to protect his fine shirt. Following dessert (ice cream, always ice cream) he cheerfully paid the bill with a generous tip before offering my brother and me a peppermint. The evening’s benediction.

The truth? Grandpa’s love glowed in deeds, not words.

This fine and classy man was a steady lantern, fueled by the Spirit. Isn’t that always the way with people who continuously walk in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? The fruit is vibrant, irresistible, a stunning, flickering torch lighting the narrow way. A wild abandon, living life with a generous invitation–Come along, dear one, taste and see that God is good.

His kindness created a soft and gentle blanket around my shoulders. I was a little girl cherished in his presence, warmed by the calm realization that it was his delight to bless. He never griped about money he spent upon my brother and me or anyone else– and I certainly didn’t need to fritter away my time attempting to earn his favor because it was unwavering, as true and steadfast as the North Star.

He was a rare and precious gem, a man whose heart was a deep ocean filled with gratitude to Christ, his Redeemer. The salty waves were pure, crashing beautifully into the lives of those whom he encountered.

My brother said it best:

Kristin, he was magnificent.

***

For many years, summertime meant a vacation at the seashore. This was an extravagance that our family could not afford.

Never mind that, Grandpa made sure he could afford it. For many years he rented a sizeable cottage and invited his children and grandchildren. The two cottages I remember best were named–a sweetness that gave language to memory.

The Cherry Cottage and The Marsh Cottage. I close my eyes and my senses light fire, as I tumble backwards to a time gone by. The sights, scents, tastes, and sounds rush back.

Here come the adults, schlepping L.L. Bean™ bags up the cottage steps, flip-flops smacking while screen doors screech and bang. The women groan as they pull open the windows, inviting a salty breeze to brush through and freshen the air as grandchildren, youngsters with bright beach towels slung over our necks, jump up and down, up and down, begging Can we please go to the beach now? Pretty please?

Gulls mew overhead while the coffee pot hisses and the teapot whistles.

We are shooed outdoors, our paper plates sloping under the heft of peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches, carrot sticks, and the saltiest potato chips. Killing time, we sip sun tea and munch lunch on the back porch, sharing our summer’s dreams, while pining for the shore, the waves, the jetties, the tide pools.

***

Finally–finally–everyone is ready, conversing loudly, interrupting more than listening, scrambling for sunglasses and lotion, chapstick and thermoses, binoculars, and of course, beach chairs. We travel the road in a large huddle, plodding the steamy pavement before taking a hard right onto the sand dunes, awkward and cautious in our flip-flops–attempting to avoid the sharp, pokey seagrass.

The adults scout for the best spot, pointing and squabbling before anchoring themselves. Setting up a formidable row of beach chairs morphs into a great to-do, dousing and smudging noses with zinc ointment, donning floppy beach hats and sinking low into striped chairs, stretching legs long with a contented sigh, feet pushing the wet sand, creating a cool pit of comfort, while foraging for misplaced sunglasses and newspapers and yellowed paperbacks from the depths of oversized canvas bags. Conversation and gossip ebb and flow amongst the women while the men drift to sleep, open-mouthed beneath the sun.

My brother, cousins and I waste no time, catapulting into the chilly tides, splashing and dunking and racing and somersaulting, carefree and happy, swimming, tossing a neon frisbee, and treading water for hours. We pause only to guzzle lemonade, devour pretzels, and study our wrinkled fingertips. I wander away to a tidepool and scrunch low, licking salt from my lips, collecting periwinkles and hermit crabs; plunking pretty shells in my red pail.

After several hours in the sun, we leave the roar of the tides behind and flip-flop back to the cottage, hungry and tired and sizzling, rinsing off in the outdoor shower so as not to carry any sand inside, because heaven help us if we do. The women cluck and sigh: A woman’s work is never done, not even on vacation, while the men raise an eyebrow and wink at us.

My brother and I slip into our softest t-shirts and shorts, sunburned and already feeling the heat. We comb our wet hair and accept our cousins’ invitation to venture to the Candy Store, down the street and around the corner.

And that’s when we realize the sad truth: unlike our cousins, we have no money for penny candy.

Grandpa overhears our whispers of despair and opens his wallet, giving each grandchild one dollar.

We are rich!

Thank you, Grandpa! we hug him and skip down the street and around the corner, soon blowing into the establishment and causing the tiny bell atop the screen door to jingle. It is spring-loaded and snaps shut with a furious bang, part of summer’s charm. The cement floors beneath our feet are tidy and swept, which is impressive given all the incoming sand.

We are swept up in the divine aroma of newspapers, doughnuts, and coffee, draped in the vision of penny candy stuffed inside endless jars. In a flash, we fill our tiny paper bags to the tippy top with our favorites, then pay and exit, leftover change jangling in our pockets. Our cheeks are bulging and our hearts are full.

We return to the cottage for what my grandmother calls supper, followed by chores, card games, and a few minutes of reading time before lights out. We are sound asleep in seconds, plunging headlong into dreamland, our young bodies full of blissful, beachy exhaustion.

Day one of vacation is over.

Grandpa leaves the cottage late the next day, on Sunday afternoon, returning to the city to work for a spell before returning to enjoy a long weekend with us. My brother and I blow through our leftover change, spending every last cent on more penny candy.

How we will survive the late afternoons stretching before us?

It is a dilemma indeed, a riddle we untangle as we sprawl on our twin beds, squeaky clean hair shining, our faces sunkissed, propped on our elbows, chins resting in hand.

We have to earn money, I say.

How about a lemonade stand? my little brother says.

We don’t have lemonade or money to buy it, I answer.

All is quiet.

And then? An idea is born.

Shells!

We will sell seashells at the end of the cottage’s driveway. Combing the beach for a pretty array, we will coat each one with my leftover clear nail polish. Once they are dry, we will arrange them on the card table, and earn money.

Two days later, during the adult’s afternoon siesta, we hang a shingle, confident it won’t take long for change to fill our jar.

Imagine the scene–two children selling shells less than a quarter of a mile from a beach full of free ones.

I am here to tell you that we gave it our best.

A handful of tanned and wrinkled beachcombers stroll by with wan smiles and shuffle away, shaking their heads and laughing. We soldier on.

After two sweltering afternoons in a row with not so much as a nickel to show for our labors, we begin to crumple in despair.

And then? A familiar sound.

Could it be?

Shielding our eyes from the afternoon sunbeams, we cry: Grandpa!

He cruises up in his Volvo (always a Volvo) and waves, classy and unhurried while retrieving two boxes and a paper bag from the back seat. Pies and ice cream from Grandma’s Pie Shop, one of our favorite establishments situated by the rotary before the Bourne Bridge.

And just like that our entire world shifts for the better.

What are my beautiful grandchildren selling? I see him smile, eyes taking in our collection and pitiful sign.

Shells, says my brother proudly. So we can go to the candy store.

Grandpa nods solemnly.

I see, he says. These are quality products, and you have done an impressive job making them to shine. What a fine business.

I think of him now, in his sixties, likely exhausted, but nonetheless choosing to gift his family a beach vacation. If tired, he wraps up the feeling and buries it in his back pocket.

His love is a mighty, roaring ocean wave, smoothing out the sands of life.

Tommy and Kristin, he says, I must buy some of these shells, which will make excellent gifts. Can you wait a few minutes while I give your grandmother these pies?

We nod, beaming, our grins reaching our ears.

***

Grandpa was our only paying customer that summer. He purchased nearly all of our inventory, placing a fat tip in our jar, for good measure.

And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)