Tag Archives: kindness

Rendered Speechless…

Sometimes I have to travel more than thirty miles in my car, for my other part-time job. Usually I deign to take back roads as I’m never quite sure if my car will explode.

I had bought this car, a 1995 Pontiac Grand Am from a colleague at work, for $375. She had inherited a newer car and graciously allowed me to pay such a paltry sum for the vehicle. I was grateful to have it.

But soon a few problems became apparent; the car would suddenly red-line, the temperature gauge rocketing into the red zone, and it began to leak copious amounts of coolant. For some unfathomable reason, these two problems ‘sometimes’ presented themselves and other times, nothing. Perplexing to say the least.

So that was why I fretted whether it would simply disintegrate en route to wherever I was heading. In fact, the car was old enough that when I went shopping anywhere, I could remove the key while it was still running, get out, lock the door, and go shopping. Sometimes I’d go to several stores, performing the exact scenario. It consumed a lot of gas, but I didn’t want to chance the car venturing into the red zone after starting it

This went on for months, never quite sure what to expect when I turned the well-worn key. It became nerve-racking. Which brings me to the speechless part.

My wife, Julie, totaled her car, a Pontiac Torrent (maybe that’s why they don’t make Pontiacs any more) and needed a new car. She had been driving a rental but found a good deal on a Toyota Rav 4; 2011 with 64,000 miles. Not bad at all.

She opted to sign the papers herself and said that I did not have to go. Why didn’t I just stay home and write instead, she said? And that’s what I did.

Hours later she called me, saying that I needed to come in to sign a few papers, sorry that she had to bother me, especially when I was wary of my own quirky car. Reluctantly I drove to the dealership, parked my car—left it still running, mind you—and found Julie. We walked to her car, with the dealer in tow, and a wonderful man named Dave Brown, Julie’s ‘auto advisor’.

I looked at the Rav, impressed by it’s clean, sharp design. The dealer, Tomi, I think his name was, then turned to me and said, “And that is for you.” He was pointing at a sparkling white Nissan Frontier, a beautiful little pickup.

As any reasonably incredulous person would say I said, “What?!”

He replied, “It’s yours, here’s the keys.”

I was astonished, unbelieving. “Come on,” I said. “This is a joke, right?” Julie and Dave were laughing nearby. Tomi again said, “No joke. It’s yours. Take it for a ride.”

I looked from him to Julie to Dave and back at the Frontier. I was, indeed, rendered speechless. Julie had, for the past week or so, been dealing with Dave, not only for her car but to find me something that was safe and reliable.

I could not believe it. “How? What? How can we afford it?”

But Julie said she had worked out all the financing with Dave and yes, it was true, that that was to be my next vehicle.

I remained stunned, unmoving, astounded by this sudden, unexpected, wonderful gift.

“Happy birthday and Valentine’s,” she said.

I am a very lucky man. It was an incredible act of kindness and concern and love, and that is why I am truly married to the most amazing woman I have ever known. Besides having the gift of my Beloved, the Frontier was the second best gift I have ever received.

It has been two days now since we both have the newer cars parked in the back lot. I am still dumbfounded by the whole affair; her traveling for miles to different destinations, working in tandem with Mr. Brown to hammer out the details, all the while it was eating her up, finding it distasteful to keep this subterfuge in play. It worked. I was clueless

I remain speechless by the incredible selflessness of both Julie and Dave, the latter working tirelessly to put the deals together, for going above and beyond his duties, and presenting us with the best possible solution to our vexing transportation problems. I salute you, Mr. Brown!

I am still rendered speechless by the magnanimity of my Beloved, of her immensely beautiful heart, her love and support for me. I am one incredibly lucky man. Julie is…is a gift to me from the universe, a wonderful soul who gives me so much love, comfort, and happiness.

This is just one (albeit huge!) example of her generosity and genuine spirit.  For that am I exceedingly grateful and continue to marvel at my good fortune in life.

I am truly blessed to have Julie as my bride, to wake every morning with her by my side, and gaze into the visage of heaven.

Thank you so much, Julie. You are truly my Beloved, and I love you..infinitely.

©Paul Grignon, 2016, All Rights Reserved.

 

Where Words Thrive…

Sometimes, sometimes you come across a site along the vast, seemingly endless galactic stream of the internet that makes you pause and peruse its offerings.

Written Words Never Die, by Eric Alagan, is such a site. Please do, by all means, stop in and engage your senses with his exquisite words.

The reason I mention this site to you is because there you will find a trove of writings that will allow you to contemplate your own writings, a place where you can read varied offerings that speak both to your soul and to your Muse.

Not only will you find choice compositions, passages and word play that will amuse and intrigue, but also heartfelt comments made by the author to any and all replies sent his way.

Eric is that kind of gentleman. He responds to all who comment on his blog. And his words are kind, encouraging, and spot on.

Recently, I accessed an almost year-old post of his, one called ‘Wolf‘, and by reading his words it prompted me to compose something of my own.

But not only that. After posting my response to his own poignant creation, that in turn, prompted me to continue the vein of my rather brief post.

If you have already gone to his original blog listed above, here is my reply to Mr. Alagan’s own potent post:

The Cellar

“Goddamn laundry’, Jake thought.

And then something moved. Off in the dark corner. Some thing stirred.

Jake took to the stairs.

Below, the thing scraped and cackled.

It began to climb.

Can you see how my initial 33-word reply can possibly become more?

Now what, you may ask, prompted me to arrive at this particular story line. Well, let me tell you, if you’ll allow me to bend your ear for a spell. Mind you, it won’t be terribly long. Here it goes:

We live in a 213 year-old house. Needless to say the basement–or cellar–has seen its fair share of comings and goings.

Since we have lived here, from June of of this year we have, on occasion, had to visit this dark, dank, impenetrable sub floor.

At first, the lights down there worked. But gradually, for no apparent reason, the bulbs gave up their ghosts. No more light.

So now, still on occasion, the power to our living room goes out. Poof! And guess who gets to descend those dark, scary stairs to fumble about the fuse box?

Um, that would be me.

So this is what prompted me to continue with the preceding 33-word story line.

I imagine, as I descend those old, creaky, musty stairs, that a hideous creature resides down there. Something foul, rotten, evil.

Something waiting for me.

As I retreat into the depths of this cellar, with a feeble flashlight in hand, the fear and terror grips my nape. My dim light casts only so much light. And in only one direction.

As I stumble about in the darkness, I can’t help but imagine this creature lurching about down there with me, unseen, a dwarf-like, hobbling gnome with a huge head and immense glowing eyes, with fangs and clicking claws that can’t wait to sever my carotid.

I move on, wildly swinging my light about. It is at this juncture when I finally reach the fuse box when I suddenly arc my light behind me and find…nothing.

Relieved I turn back, find the switch, and flip it on. And that is the moment, when I turn once again, to find this gibbering goblin, this ghastly diminutive monster, clacking his claws and snapping his jaws at me, giggling and laughing, his foul, hot breath upon me, and feel the hot searing thrust of a rotten hand into my jugular when I…

…make it up the stairs, panting, slam the door behind me and find no spurting blood about me.

Now that is what a powerful prompt can do for you.

And that is why I return, again and again, to Mr. Alagan’s fine site.

Stop on by. You never what will make you compose your next line of prose.

Just make sure the light is on.

Copyright Paul Grignon, 2013, All Rights Reserved.

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