A fresh coat of paint marked the love of a grandfather

Fifteen silver quarters and the last photograph taken of my grandfather, all neatly arranged in a clear plastic frame. Such was my inheritance from my grandfather nearly 40 years ago; a gift to me for his remembrance.

But it is not so much by these that I remember him; it is by his hands. His were the hands of a steel worker, scarred with life sacrifice, yet thick with strength.

I witnessed that strength as I watched my grandfather lift double ladders from their garage mooring. It was the summer of my 11th year and I was asked to help with the painting of his house. The ladders were wooden with weight enough to break a man’s back. He would set those ladders in the cool of each morning, and down them in late afternoon’s heat.

My work was at the top of the ladders; first scraping, then painting. I worked from my elevated perch inspected by the squinting eyes of my grandfather below me. I was proud of the chance to prove my worth.

A daily reward

That sense of pride was never as keen as at the end of the day. “A good day’s pay for a good day’s work”, my grandfather would say as he counted wages into the palm of my hand. I’d walk home looking over my shoulder to asses my work from a distance; my earnings carried safely in my pocket. And so in work my summer passed.

Then, one late August day, I dropped a can of white oil paint onto the black asphalt driveway below me. It hit the ground with such force that its contents erupted like a geyser, hurtling and splashing itself with unbridled fury. In my panic, I grabbed a rag and tried to clean the spill. Like a man seeking to hide the ugliness of sin, I managed only to spread its reach about me.

My grandfather was inside preparing lunch. I walked through the side entranceway and up the kitchen steps. My confession was direct. “I spilled the paint, grandpa”, I said, “and I’m sorry.” A lump rose in my throat and my tears of remorse began to flow. My breath came in halting gasps. I led my grandfather outside and pointed to the ever enlarging spill.

A day’s work is done

He measured the scene in silence, and then spoke calmly. “Go, boy; come back tomorrow”, he said. I cried the entire way home.

The next morning, I walked up the sidewalks to my grandfather’s driveway, my eyes searching for the ugly white smear that undoubtedly marred the driveway beneath the front porch window. I was certain that stain would be there for the whole world to see, bragging of my carelessness.

And yet, as I drew nearer, all seemed to be in order. Except for a few dried splashes of white paint on brickwork, there was little to proclaim the previous day’s disaster. The driveway was as coal black as my first day of painting.

I looked up to see my grandfather waiting for me near the side entranceway. I walked towards him with uncertainty.

“Black paint, boy” he said slowly, “black paint”. A smile broke across his sun-weathered face as he reached out his thick hands to me. I noted the dried dark paint that mottled the back of them, and then I understood. In the solitude of the previous evening his hands had painted the front driveway, covering the blemish that had taunted my conscience.

A new beginning

I stepped forward and embraced him with gratefulness. He placed his arm about my shoulder as the morning sun shone down upon us. Then he reached for his handkerchief and wiped the warm tears gathering in my eyes. “Now let us work, boy” he said, and together we walked to the back garage for the heavy wooden ladders.

As a sinner finds his peace in God’s mercy, so a young boy found redemption in a grandfather’s kindness.

Remembrance

Fifteen silver quarters and his last photograph. These I received from my grandfather in his death; a gift for his remembrance. But I remember him by the gift he gave to me in his life. A gift born in the strength of his scarred and thick hands, and given in that long ago summer — the gift of a grandfather’s love.

David Bobovnyik is a Youngstwon area lawyer who grew up on the city’s West Side and shares his memories with readers from time to time.