Family Stories Collection #1

Grandpa was bi-vocational for much of his life, and to this day, tells some of the best stories that farming and truck-driving could possibly have to offer. Or perhaps it's the way his blue eyes sparkle with tears of mirth while his shoulders shake silently that makes simple every day encounters with animals and people from all corners of the globe so incredibly engaging.  His voice gets thick, and if you listen without watching, you may think he was about to cry.  And I have seen him cry.  But not when he's telling a story - he tells stories for the sake of enjoyment, and they always end in that hoarse voice, barely able to squeeze the words around the bubble of laughter coming up from the core of his body.

One of the benefits about being the first granddaughter is that among all the stories of pigs refusing to cross imaginary lines and little Italian boys proclaiming the wonders of their mothers' sauces, there are also several about my own life that circulate in our family lore.

Before the days of cell phones, Grandpa would stop at diners while out on the truck, usually on the way to New York City, to grab a bite, and call Grandma from the pay phone.  He did this very thing one day - January 30, 1982 - and this time he was met with some exciting news: his daughter had given birth to his first grandchild - a girl.  He found out her name - Jessica - and after a while hung up the phone and went to sit down at the bar for some lunch.

Eager to share his news with someone, he told the waitress who was pouring his coffee, "I've just become a grandfather - I have a new granddaughter!"

"That's wonderful!" the waitress replied, undoubtedly used to many road travelers looking for someone to tell their stories to.  "What's her name?"

At this point, Grandpa found himself confused...what was her name?  He had just heard it...

He looked at the waitress, and falteringly said, "Um...Jessifer."

"Oh...", the waitress said, taken off guard.  "That's ... that's nice.  Congratulations."

To this day, 31 years later, the name lives on in my family.  I'm referred to as "Jessifer" as often as I am anything else.  And it's precious to me, that silly name.  It's a relic from another time, when communication was not so instant, and life contained a few more surprises.  He walked into the diner that day, not knowing that this call would be special.  And when the time came to tell my name, he couldn't quickly text message to ensure that he got it just right.

But more importantly, the name Jessifer is a token of my grandfather, one that I'll always carry with me.  I love to picture him in his late 40's, sitting at the diner, engaging with people in his relaxed way, his blue eyes squinting as he looks into space trying to recall my name, and the tone of his voice as he tries to say it.  

Crossroad

She jogged past me this morning, and in the moment when my eyes fell on her I both noticed her for the first time, and realized I had seen her nearly every morning I came to the park for a walk.  She was cute; small in stature, but not slight - "healthy", as the locals say, referring to that weight which is neither too much nor too little.  But what struck me, my experience of India being very mono-cultural up until several weeks ago, was her ethnicity.  The shape of her face and eyes indicated that she may be coming from a northeastern state, or perhaps Nepal.  I felt a squeeze of pain in my heart...how typically foolish of me, to assume I know someone's story, just by looking at her.  Perhaps her life here in Delhi was great.  But according to stories and statistics, it was also possible that she was living vulnerable to prejudice.

Regardless, it probably was safe to assume that at some point in her life, maybe not so long ago, she had reached the crossroad that so many of us all over the earth do.  The road ahead continued on much as her life had thus far.  But to the left and to the right were other roads, leading away from places of familiarity, of heritage and family, to big cities of anonymity, new experiences, and - the biggest and maybe only draw for many - work.

Into the overflowing cauldron of destiny and disaster that is the capital city of the largest democracy in the world, thousands of people jump every week.  Nearly every emigrating soul coming is someone who felt they really didn't have a choice at the crossroad.  Men and boys, whole families, sometimes women alone and at risk, pour across the city limits, leaving behind villages with dead economies, and farms that just can't quite sustain.

Where is the City that will embrace, inspire, build up?  Where is the City that will receive with gratitude each perspective, each gift that is brought, and transform it all into a Beauty and Goodness that will never stop growing?  Instead, the cities of the earth so often chew up these desperate and displaced ones and spit out their bones.

I don't know why this woman awoke all this raw emotion, nearing to a hopelessness, this morning.  Especially because when she looked at me, with those eyes of an outsider, I didn't see all the anger, the angst that was boiling to the surface inside of me.  I saw gentleness and a mirrored interest in this fellow troubadour.  And she smiled at me.  She jogged past me, panting lightly in the cool morning air, and smiled.