A Story of the Endless Enough

“I’ve always been a legs man!” My grandpa Roger smiled the sort of half smile one gives when trying not to bare teeth. He ate another spoon of raisin bran immersed in a bowl of milk; crowned with perfectly uniform circles of banana that he slowly cut, one 1/2 inch slice at a time, onto his typical morning breakfast in Niagara Falls, New York. 

My little sister and I sat at the kitchen table in sleeveless cotton nightgowns–a necessity for July nights slept in a bedroom cooled by a box fan pried into an open window. We were still small enough that our feet hung from old wooden chairs, floating several inches above the ground. Our legs swung in rhythm with grandpa’s humor and we giggled at his blunt proclamation. 

When visiting the home my mother grew up in, a simple two story house from the 1950s built atop an island in the Niagara River, we always begged to hear the story of how Grandpa Roger fell in love with Grandma Grace. His version always involved the moment he noticed my grandma walking on the downtown sidewalk pavement of Niagara Falls. 

Everyone, except my grandpa, first noticed my grandmother’s bright red hair–always set and curled in waves. She had small blue eyes positioned in a long face with a large nose. She was no beauty. While growing up, grandma’s older brothers made her keenly aware of that fact. This gave her years to develop the perfect comeback appropriate for a fiery redhead: “But, I’m a good singer, a sharp dresser and did have great legs. And I knew how to show them off!” 

She stood upon the kitchen linoleum floor, printed in the pattern of red bricks, and filled a white platter with oversize blueberry muffins purchased by Grandpa Roger that very morning from the local Wegman’s bakery counter. As Hilary and I bit into fresh muffins and sprinkled our plates with the green caps of disappearing strawberries, grandma continued the story. “Your Grandpa Roger was so shy. He’d never dated anyone before. That day he first noticed me, I didn’t even see him. My best friend and I rented a room above the coach house right behind the all men’s boarding house where your grandpa lived. But soon he started to pop up everywhere.” 

I looked down at my grandma’s legs–extended below a lavender muumuu decorated with white buttons down its center. Her legs were splotchy red; ankles puffy. This was the side effect of blood clots and days spent walking the hallways of a high school in the kind of black, sturdy heels appropriate for a principal in her late sixties–holding on long enough to get the New York state pension plan. 

“Somehow he heard that my father was visiting from Massachusetts. Roger decided to park his car in front of the coach house and pretended to wash that thing for hours…until my dad finally showed up. He immediately ran over to my dad, shook his hand and introduced himself. He made quite an impression.”

Grandpa Roger looked in our direction, smiled and nodded his head in silence. Even in old age, I could tell that he’d been quite a catch–thin and handsome, not balding or gray like other grandpas. He gulped another spoonful of banana-infested raisin bran. 

“My dad came upstairs to the coach house apartment, and immediately asked if I knew Roger, and said that he was such a nice man. He gave me one order: ‘Get to know him better.’” Grandma pulled the paper liner off her muffin and gave us girls a wink. “He finally got up the courage to ask me on a date, and we hit it off. His first gift to me was an ankle bracelet with a nickname engraved in gold: Gizmo.” 

“Like I said, I’m a legs man,” Grandpa Roger half-smiled as he grabbed a muffin–absolutely forbidden on his strict heart-healthy diet, but allowed when his only two grandchildren were in town. 

My Grandpa Roger, Grandma Grace and 5-year-old me at the Kansas City Zoo.

There are many things I miss about my grandparents whose graves lie beneath a large oak tree in a Niagara Falls cemetery. Their house on Cayuga Island belongs to someone else now. They undoubtedly tore out the kitchen’s red brick linoleum, ripped down the retro cream-colored wallpaper, painted in green ivy, that lined the hallway. I’m sure they changed the color of my mother’s childhood bedroom from mint green to some boring hue of tan or gray. 

Sometimes on long walks, on sunny days, I talk to my grandpa. He was the only optimist in a family full of melancholy souls. I need an infusion of Grandpa Roger’s simple joy–lessons I ask him to teach me–before another year slips away. 

Grandpa Roger looks down on me from above. He’s not 97, but vibrant and middle-aged. Since he no longer has to worry about another open heart surgery, he bites into his daily blueberry muffin and scribbles something on my heart. 

Dear Olivia,

Lesson #1: Joy comes when you realize that you’ve always had enough. 

A native North Dakotan with a degree in chemical engineering, he never chased his potential, but centered himself on good; content with enough. My Grandma Grace’s brothers were also chemical engineers–ambitious young men fighting for extra digits in their paychecks during the prosperous years after World War II. They worked long hours, strategically hit balls on green golf courses with bosses on the weekends, and hustled to climb the ranks. Grandpa kept a different sort of schedule.

Early morning, he slipped protective winter covers over his polished brown dress shoes and walked fifteen minutes through Niagara Falls’ snow heaped roads. A bus took him to and from the chemical plant so that his stay-at-home wife had access to the one Buick he paid cash for. 

He didn’t alter his personality or fight for a seat next to his manager in the plant’s cafeteria. I imagine him eating lunch next to typical New York Italian co-workers who talked too much and loved a man who’d nod and listen. He’d eat something lukewarm in a metal lunchbox from home–some sort of bologna sandwich with lettuce, tomato and a teaspoon of butter slathered on Wonder white bread. The main course would undoubtedly be chased down by one of his beloved Macintosh apples–which he ate every day of his life until his teeth were too old and weak to withstand the crisp bite. 

Every evening at 4:30 p.m., my young mother sat near the front window and waited to see her father appear around the corner, lifting his legs high to plod through mounds of white left by plows throughout the day. His brown leather briefcase swung by his side. His mouth formed into a whistle she could not hear through the glass window of the house he’d worked diligently to pay off. 

After a simple family dinner of plain broiled chicken, white rice, and a small box of frozen peas split three ways, he’d sing my Grandma Grace’s praises: “You made a wonderful meal!” Without delay, he rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, and threw a dish towel over one shoulder. Although completely tone-deaf, some sort of miracle occurred when he whistled. As my young mother joined him at the sink to clean up the evening meal, his breaths formed a beautifully on-pitch rendition of “Amazing Grace” that rang out above dirty dish water.   

Despite a full day at work and a sink full of dishes, my mother remembers him often donning white long underwear per her request. Grandpa Roger joined her as the male lead in the best ballet performance any living room across America could experience. Before lifting his girl into a flying pirouette, he looked over to his wife, an audience of one, and said, “Pull the curtains, Grace.” 

Living at peace with enough paid big dividends for Grandpa Roger. 

In his silence and whistles. 

Through his faithful simplicity. 

By his choice to rest in the endless enough, my Grandpa Roger proved he did not have the weak heart scribbled onto hospital medical records.

During family vacations with hotel pools, salty with the pee of wild children, I saw the visible sign of my Grandpa Roger’s diagnosis. He stood waist-deep in the cold water–thin from years of cardiac rehab exercise and a strict diet of more chicken, boiled rice and peas. I wore a light blue swimsuit with a rainbow across my pudgy abdomen and jumped off the side into grandpa’s arms. My water-shriveled finger traced the long white scar from the top of his chest to his abdomen–proof he’d been sawed open twice and survived. 

As the surgeons peeled away the layers of skin, muscle and bone to fix a weak heart, they would never find the real Roger inside. This sort of gentle giant’s not recognizable to the men of this world. His strength was found in the discipline of the endless enough. It’s not for weaklings, and grandpa’s training began when he was young.  

It was the Great Depression of the 1930s, and his father owned a prosperous bank that watched in horror as America collapsed. The stock market crashed and a Russian immigrant entered the bank, demanding a cash withdrawal of his entire savings. Of course, my great grandfather did not have it; no banker did. The Russian promised to return the following day with a shotgun; to kill him if he did not pay out. My Grandpa Roger was awakened in the middle of the night, his clothing, history books and ice skates quietly packed in leather trunks while he slept. At 3 a.m., his father drove to Minot’s Main Street, hung a closed sign on the bank’s door and the entire family disappeared for years to the tiny farming community of Ruso, North Dakota (a town with the official population of one according to the 2020 census).

When his mother, my Great Grandma Minnie–a woman renowned for her large bust and, in more prosperous times, for hiding cash in her bra where no one could possibly notice–could only offer her teenage son a few slices of bread and glass of milk daily, the kind simplicity in Grandpa Roger’s hazel eyes made doubters trust: “Don’t cry, mom. That’s enough for me. Really, it’s enough.”

His stomach used groans to announce its need for more; his life trapped in the flat fields of North Dakota that blew dreams away. Grandpa Roger fed the future inner giant of a man who learned to want less; to rest in the endless enough.

My grandpa’s final all-family Christmas. He lived a few weeks short of his 97th birthday.

Growing up, I never believed enough was indeed enough. My teachers said I had too much potential. Too many dreams. I served too great a God to be happy, like Grandpa Roger, with enough.

This morning, I took a walk near the Mississippi River. My dog yanked me with her sudden pursuit of a squirrel she’s been chasing for nine years and never comes close to catching. A passerby gave me a knowing look and smiled. I talked to grandpa. Talked to God. 

I’ve been taught to pray: God use me. Discontent with the simple, and not profound, ways he already does. 

Rather than forming great prayers, I sense something change inside of me–like my soul finally learning to let go and whistle. “God, if you just walk me–that’s enough.”

God speaks five words: “I need you to write.”

My American-trained innards visualize scenarios that involve publishing contracts; my hair done up for an interview with Hoda and Jenna on the Today Show. 

I stay quiet, nod my head, wish I had a bowl of raisin bran. 

I speak to my inner giant instead: Write for the one person who needs it. Write so your great grandchildren can hold a piece of you; of Grandpa Roger.

I’m transported back to that round kitchen table in Niagara Falls. My feet dangle above red brick linoleum. My grandpa gives that silent nod and takes a bite of that massive muffin. He winks. 

I was too young to know that some dreams die and hearts give out. 

That I’m the type that could have everything and still reach for more. 

I grab a strawberry and my inner giant whispers across the years:

“Grandpa, help me. Help me to be at peace with the endless enough.”

He jumps from his seat, lifts me from the wooden chair and carries me into the living room. His white long underwear disappeared long ago, but he lifts me high into the air and my cotton nightgown flutters behind me; catching the wind flowing through the open windows from the Niagara River. 

Grandpa Roger lifts me into the same flying pirouette he perfected with my mother years ago: “Don’t worry, Olivia. I know you. You’ll get there.”

I rest in the strength of his thin arms.

I feel every ounce of the moment–hear my sister’s laughter, notice the ugly orangish-tan shag carpet beneath grandpa’s slippers. I smile. 

He looks over at my grandma, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Her lavender muumuu compliments her red hair laced with gray.

“Pull the curtains, Grace.”

Please continue below for this week’s journal entry questions designed to help you process the content of living with the “endless enough.” {This is only available to those who subscribe to receive my emails weekly via Substack.}