The Art of Waiting

The Art of Waiting

               Polly didn’t understand how the idea of waiting could be so ambiguous. Most of the world had it wrong- according to her grandparents. Everyone else thought waiting was the art of doing nothing, until the right time; or being patient until something happened to get you what you wanted.

               As a little girl, Polly used to hate waiting for things she wanted, and loved putting off chores or other drudgery she didn’t want to do.

               “Don’t let your grandma hear you say that!” her grandfather always told her when she didn’t want to do something.

               Polly was raised by her grandparents in their small farmhouse. Working with the animals was difficult, but it helped ground her perspective about what life could offer. Not to mention, it gave her grandparents the chance to change her mind on waiting.

               Her grandparents’ idea of waiting was found on little plaques around their home.

Work hard towards your goals until something happens and you achieve them, or a new goal comes along.

               Sometimes Polly would say the last half was just lack of commitment, after one of her grandma’s sermons on the virtues of waiting.

               Grandpa would laugh then, telling her, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

               One evening after they’d all finished supper, Grandma went on an unusually long discourse extolling waiting’s virtues. Grandma had carried some plates and cups into the kitchen while Grandpa filled rubber bowls with the leftovers, and sealed them in aluminum foil. He’d quickly set them in the fridge and strolled over to the sink where Polly- to her credit- had already run the water and started scrubbing dishes.

               Polly heard her grandma’s voice echoing faintly from her rocker in the other room.

               “Young girl, if you don’t learn to save your money and work hard…”

               Polly zoned out and kept scrubbing, hoping to finish quickly and catch some stargazing before going to bed. It was supposed to be a clear sky, a full moon, and a crisp breeze!

               She slowed though, when she noticed Grandpa had stopped rinsing- a pensive look on his face. She wondered if she’d forgotten to respond to one of Grandma’s questions. Grandpa didn’t prompt her, and Grandma was still droning on.

               “I worry about you, Ruby. You spend too much time with that boy, Rupert, and your grades are suffering.”

“I hope you’ll learn to wait to focus on boys until after college…”

               That was it! Why was Grandma talking about herself and Grandpa like she was her own mother?

Polly glanced back at Grandpa and caught his eye.

               He flashed a small, sad smile and quietly said, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

He then winked at her and dodged the damp dish towel she threw at him…

               Polly wistfully remembered how simple life really was back then. As a young teenager, she’d been free to roam and learn in her own way. All she was required to do was help around the house, and not stay out super late.

               Polly’s chores and duties also molded her already independent nature into what her grandparents called, “The Lone Star”. Her grandparents were pleased how other kids and adults gravitated towards her strong, sure character- despite being generally aloof and blunt.

               With the attention and respect Polly had in the community, it didn’t surprise her grandparents when she started taking days away from the farm. The closer campsites they’d enjoyed when she was little weren’t enough to satisfy her solitary 17-year-old nature. The stand of Fir Trees behind the pasture, and the dense Pine in the mountains became her stomping grounds on these escapes.

               A couple years later, Grandpa would join her often to escape from the farm and community as well. With Grandma’s passing, he became reserved and quiet- unless he was around Polly. He’d said he was worried that that night after supper showed Grandma had dementia. The doctors just said she was getting older and it was common to mix up memories at her age.

               Polly loved the company. Sometimes she was nervous her solitude would win out, and her grandfather would be too nice to insist on coming with her. She hated that he suffered so much when he was alone on the farm; or in the house when she was away.

               On one of their last outings together, Polly had asked Grandpa about his relationship with her grandmother.

               “Are you angry at Grandma for leaving?”

               He gazed into the glowing coals of the fire for a while and she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“Grandpa?”

               Looking up into her eyes, he grinned. “Could you imagine what Grandma would say if I was?”

“No, I’m not angry at her. She’d just impersonate her mother anyway.”

               He continued, “She got a kick out of what the doctors had said.”

“Do you know what she told them?”

               I didn’t really. After the trip to the clinic, Grandma had become the stereotypical sweet old lady that smiled, but didn’t say much.              

               I’m so patient I’ve become my mother!

               Best grandma impersonation ever.

               After that, we rolled into our own sleeping bags and watched the stars pass over us…

               Now Grandpa was gone too, and Polly stayed plenty busy on the farm. She followed her grandmother’s example and didn’t go to college. It didn’t hurt her feelings much since it would have been hard to explain her merit to the average College Board.

               While working with a local lawyer friend to settle her grandparents’ estate, Polly found a letter from her grandfather. It was dated within a week of their last camping trip.

Dearest Polly,

Your grandmother and I are so proud of you and all you’ve accomplished. I wasn’t sure how to tell you this- your grandmother was supposed to be the one to do so- but it’s time you learned who you truly are.

We took you in as part of our family’s tradition. Whoever runs this farm takes on the charge of raising a child from the community who’s lost their parents. If our community is fortunate enough to not have an orphan at the time, then this farm raises an orphan from one of our sister communities.

  It’s the child’s privilege to then run the farm and carry on the tradition. I was the orphan before you. If you desire to carry on, I advise that you continue your trips into the mountain. When the time is right, you will meet and marry someone to share this vision with. Or you will raise an orphan on your own. Either way I believe in you. You are The Lone Star!

Love,    

Grandpa Rupert

               I have to smile as I read the letter again. My wrinkled hand still shakes as much as it did the first time- firm and unblemished by age. Instead of from shock and hurt, it now shakes from overuse, hard work, and waiting.

               “You’ll understand when you’re older” still doesn’t make much sense.

That didn't stop me from telling it to my own little orphan as she grew up!

               Her name is, Ruby Rupert Wait.

She didn’t take long to set straight anyone who mistook her name for an old lady’s…

But you already know that.

               All these memories are getting foggy, Ruby.

               I’ve waited long enough to write this story, just like Grandpa Rupert did with his letter. It’s so good to know I don’t have to wait until I die to give you the farm. Now your man can stop fixing up this old lady’s house and get to work on fixing it up for Ruby Storm.

Wherever your storm settles, the lives will be richer for it!

Love,

Polly

Epilogue

A few days later…

               “Polly, Polly?” a soft voice calls to me.

               Slowly, my eyes open. “Yes?”

Grandpa.

               “Have you waited long enough?”

               I smile and rise out of my tired body.

               “I believe so. I’ve worked hard towards my goals, but it seems another has come to take their place.”