Have you ever received as much as you wanted of something you desired—maybe even more?
I was thinking today of a gift I received when I was 6 or 7—a gift so lavish and so unexpected that I’ve remembered it, with a sense of wonder, all my life.
My mother, younger brother, and I were staying at a hotel in San Francisco, preparing to travel by ship to Guam to join our dad, who’d been stationed there for a year. We’d lived with my grandparents, mother’s parents, in Memphis for that year, waiting until the Air Force built sufficient housing for “dependents’ quarters.” We, the dependents, expected to be living in Guam for a year, a long time away from familiar comforts of “stateside,” so mother had packed clothes and other necessities enough to carry us through our time on a tiny Pacific ocean.
As a little kid, I was oblivious about what I was leaving behind and what I might discover in the future. As it turned out, the year in Guam included going to school in Quonset huts; living through two typhoons; swimming at the beach every day after school; watching movies on a huge outdoor screen, often huddled under slickers and ignoring the frequent rain bursts. But that was all ahead of me.
At this time, before our departure, I was cranky because I was often left in the care of my grandmother, Nan, while Mother and her father conferred about paperwork—taxes, wills, I suppose. Nan was a stickler for manners and politeness to adults, and I chafed under her tutelage. One day, I must have lashed out—I don’t remember what I said—and she responded angrily: “You don’t appreciate what I do for you!” Then, she swept open the door of a walk-in closet, marched over to an enormous carton, ripped off the tape, and demanded: “Look at this.”
Look, I did. And I was amazed. The carton was filled with books. Dozens and dozens. Maybe a hundred. Books for a child, a beginning reader who was hungry for books.
I don’t remember the titles. Possibly the Bobbsey twins series or Nancy Drew, maybe a few Little Golden books, although I’d already outgrown such “babyish” fare.
All I remember is the abundance: the vast array of books, all there for me to sample in the coming year.
In retrospect, I am astonished that my grandmother, not much of a reader herself, would have imagined that I would need such rich sustenance for the year ahead. I wish I had asked her about that. I wish I had ever thanked her enough. But I didn’t and she has been gone for decades.
The books are long gone, too, of course. But what remains is an indelible memory of receiving just what I needed, more than I needed, more than enough. A gift that continues to astonish me.
