60 Degrees of Separation

I smile fondly across the table at him and take his hand as he graces our food. What a warmth and comfort it is to know him, to share another meal. It is our tradition now, this Sunday afternoon date at the Old Country Buffet.

His gnarled and disfigured hands grasp his utensils and slowly cut away at his baked potato. I chuckle as I survey his plate. His diet of starches and meat is a stark contrast to my vegetable-laden spread. He peers over his glasses and asks about my week as I pick at green beans and black-eyed peas.

This is not how I would have imagined it. He is certainly not the companion I had picked out for Sunday dates, or any dates for that matter. At 84 (turning 85 this year, he reminds me), there are 60 years between us. Sixty degrees of separation that should make this afternoon, and so many preceding ones preposterous. But it works somehow.

"She's my girl," he tells everyone we meet. "She's good to me, y'know? She's like my own granddaughter. I don't know what I'd do without her."

At first I almost bought into it. Even tried to live up to the saintly title I'd been bestowed. I was going to be his perfect little angel, his saving grace. I baked and called and cleaned up after. I visited weekends and came up during the week, especially those first few months. It was a gesture of love, but I'd be kidding myself not to acknowledge there was a measure of pride in the mix as well. Bob needed me. And I was not about to let Bob down.

It took more than one instance of emotional breakdown for me to realize the fateful truth: God had placed Bob in my life every bit as much as he'd placed me in his. How he knew just the right words to say to a heartbroken, distraught, hormonal woman in her mid-twenties on a number of different occasions, I will never understand. Outside of divine wisdom, there really is no clear answer.

It's been said that the most brilliant politicians are those who lull you off your defenses with the illusion of simplicity--- I've heard this especially applied to Southerners. Though he is no politico, the same might be said of Bob. With his West Virginia dialect and jovial light-heartedness, I am ashamed to confess I almost dismissed him as a simpleton. Yet, when I survey all the lessons I've learned over the last year, some of the most profound I attribute to him.

He loved her more than 60 years steadily, dearly, sacrificially, if imperfectly. He was not afraid to show her or let anyone else know, just as he is not ashamed to love me or any of his fellow men openly. He must have had pride all those years, and thoug h I've seen his a time or two, it doesn't rule him and doesn't threaten his love of others.

More than that, he's taught me what it is to accept love from others. To allow another to care for me, to breathe a moment and let my defenses down. Truly, this is the hardest thing for me. But I know it's possible, and I have Bob to thank for that. He's one of the few who have earned the right to call me "sweetheart", EVEN the dreaded "darlin'" is welcome coming from this dear man. Ignoring my futile protests, he tucks me in for afternoon naps, makes me fried ham sandwiches, and pays wherever we go. Let's face it --- he's spoiled me clean rotten.

And he keeps me laughing. I can't help but mirror his squinted smile as his glasses slide down his nose and he giggles in boyish contagion. Whatever pressing matters of life we might discuss later, for now he is content to tell jokes and remind me that whatever it is I'm eating "makes your hair grow, mmph!"

A few moments later, I glance around in disbelief and mild embarrassment as he returns from the dessert bar with no less than 10 cookies piled on a plate. "These will last me all week, hon." And he proceeds to wrap them each in a napkin, stuffing them into the bulging pockets of his Ralph Lauren blazer. We erupt in fits of laughter once more, drawing suspicious looks and raised brows from nearby tables. Never a dull moment.

Before we leave, he has to look around one more time for 'his girls'. He hasn't seen Sandra in weeks and Gail isn't working this section today. So he hands his ones to a grateful Anne instead. She winks and thanks him, reminding him of the Easter morning special next week. He wouldn't miss it for the world, he assures her.

He trustingly tosses me his handyman-assortment ring of keys and we climb inside his F-150. He knows I love that truck, and he knows I love to drive. My heart skips a beat as I crank 'er up and the sound of banjos and fiddles greets us. Instinctively, we burst into "I'll Fly Away" as we back out of the lot and make our way back to the house.

No, this is certainly not what I ever had in mind. Thank God, life rarely is.