This week’s writing prompt on Writers Island was The Gift.

More Than a Dime
By S.M. Toy

How can a dime be worth more than five dollars? It all depends on where the money comes from.

My grandfather was a great man. Not in the save-the-world, make-a-difference, lead-others-on-to-do-good-things sense of great. But he was great to visit, easy-going, had a good sense of humour, and loved seeing all us grandkids - for a certain length of time at least; then, when he’d had enough of the family, he’d disappear to the basement to play solitaire with a moldy deck of cards and visit his secret consoling-stash of cigarettes and beer. He was the only member of the family who could silently endure my grandmother; sadly hen-pecked as he was, he’d long-since learned that when it came to his stern wife, silence, and total compliance, was golden.

Plus he knew the value of a dime.

We lived about six blocks away from our grandparents. My younger sister and I were sent most weekends to their house for a visit, sometimes having to stay overnight on Saturdays so our parents could take a break. We cringed at having to spend time with Grandma, a mean old woman who caused us untold humilities and embarrassments. I know, I know; we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But Grandma… well, she was something else! My other three sibs will agree with me on this. And our mother agreed as well. That only-child relationship with her mother was a contentious one, but she was always the apple of her father’s eye.

Generally our visits consisted of Grandma lecturing us from her big armchair, always set in the corner of the kitchen, next to her ever-increasing row of pills. Grandpa, his back to Grandma, was constantly reheating thick, strong, earlier-perked coffee in a small aluminum pan on the stove top, an ever-present cigarette stuck firmly between his lips, the inch-long ash constantly in danger of falling off into the pot of boiling coffee.

Some days, the really excruciating ones, we’d have to go shopping with Grandma along Queen St. Or, worse, if Aunt Polly and Aunt Irma came along, we would trudge through Shopper’s World for the afternoon, dragged along by the three biddies. Much better was when Grandpa offered to take us to the bakery around the corner where we could choose from chocolate éclairs, Napoleons, custard slices, and palm leaves. Or, if he managed to escape Grandma’s clutches, he’d take us to the (still then) Woodbine Race Track a few blocks west. She allowed him to go as long as he had only enough cash to pay for our entry. He was never given any money to place a bet. But all he really wanted to do anyway was watch the horses run. Having been a stable boy back in Belgium, he still loved to be around horses – possibly more than he liked being around people in general and my grandmother in particular. Other times he’d take us for walks in Kew Park to watch a baseball game at the diamond, or right down to the boardwalk by Lake Ontario so we could play in the sand.

But best of all, as far as I was concerned, was when we helped in the garden behind the house. During the early days of summer we could always count on being handed the first of the thin, sweet carrots Grandpa pulled out of the ground and brushed off against his pant leg. Maybe it was the remaining dirt clinging to the vegetables that made them taste like they were the best in the world, but likely it was just because they came from Grandpa. Then there were the pigeons he kept in a coop at the fence line. We were allowed to go inside where Grandpa would hand us each a squab to cradle. The first time I realized that what I was eating for dinner one evening was actually one of the baby birds I had been recently cuddling, I was traumatized. But they tasted so good, prepared lovingly as they were by my grandfather, who did all of the cooking anyway, that my horror soon passed. I’m absolutely certain my grandmother had a hand in making Grandpa eventually dismantle the coop and release all the birds. Horrid, filthy things, according to her. Which they were, but that fact had never seemed to stop her from gobbling up her share whenever Grandpa cooked them for us.

On Saturday afternoons we sat on Grandpa’s lap while he read the comics to us. How were we to know that he couldn’t actually read at all, but was making up the stories as he went along? There were a lot of “Pow”s and “I’m going to get you, you bugger!” that I’m sure were not written into the originals. But he kept us laughing, not only because he made the comics funnier, but because he was also giving us surreptitious swigs from his bottle of Labatt’s IPA the whole time. Then, after we’d finished dinner, Grandpa, my sister and I would be relegated to the kitchen table where we’d play cards, usually Go Fish, and listen to the Maple Leafs playing Saturday Night Hockey on the radio. No TV for us because Grandma was in the living room watching Stampede Wresting.

If it hadn’t been for Grandpa, I don’t think our parents could ever have dragged us, kicking and screaming, over to that house to visit. The worst part always came when we were leaving to go back home. Grandma would open her purse (I’m sure a moth flew out every time the snaps were released), hand us each a five dollar bill, and say, “Here’s your money. I know that’s why you came.” The sad part for me was that, as far as Grandma was concerned, she’d hit the nail on the head, and it made me feel excruciatingly guilty as I kissed the pointed-to spot on her cheek in thanks. It didn’t happen as often, but every once in a while Grandpa would pull out a Seagram’s velvet bag, the kind the whiskey bottles came in, that closed with drawstrings. (I still keep one in memory of my Grandpa.) All his worldly fortune of change was contained in that bag because, as you guessed it, Grandma also controlled the family money. He would search around with his hand and pull out a dime for each of us, saying, “You go buy yourself something.” And with a smile playing on his lips, he’d add, “Now get the hell out of here!” We would run off, giggling.

That gift of a dime was like a million dollars to me, especially now that Grandpa has been dead for these past thirty-five years. A million dollars worth of memories.