Grandma Time

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                                                   Rick Vasquez

 

            It was 1960 a sunny day in South Los Angeles. Rafella, our grandmother, lived in a white bungalow with a step-up porch large enough to accommodate six pre-teen boys. It was the older guys who gave us the vision of us all being on a ship. They told us we were in the middle of the ocean and the vessel was sinking. They made us younger ones jump ship. I was seven years old, and though it was probably only three feet above the ground, the fear of jumping overboard made tears run down my cheeks. I leaped into the air and rolled onto the ground, feeling my body, making sure I was alright. I got up and started climbing the porch stairs again, ready to face my fears. The screen door opened, and our grandmother came outside calling us to gather for 'Grandma Time.'

            My heart smiled, because 'Grandma Time' was so special to each of us. When we were young, we only saw our grandmother maybe three times a year. However, we all knew the routine and had our own special seats in the living room, creating a circle around a lime-green and white acrylic coffee table. On top of the table were placed six tea cups and saucers. It was up to us to pick our own special cup. Well, being the youngest of the six, there was no choice; whatever cup that was left behind was mine. Our Grandma had a beautiful old, antique white container with gold lacing and dark blue edges; the faded flowers bloomed along its sides, giving the container a sense of age, yet the comfort of wisdom. She would come to each of us with the container, starting with my older brother, who was the oldest of us cousins, only taking off the lid when in front of each of us. It was her own ritual, carefully executed, quickly closing the lid as though she was afraid that the magic would spill out. She would instruct each of us to reach in, grab a pinch of leaves, and drop them into the teacup. She always smiled and said something encouraging, giving each of us a moment of her love.

I was on the couch next to my brother Mike, and after his turn was over, she looked at me, closed her eyes, and gave me a special smile. She tilted her head and nodded, as if somebody had just given her a quick message for me. She opened the lid, and I remember reaching into the jar, realizing how special and how much I loved my grandmother. The leaves were dried and almost prickly. I picked my portion sparingly, mostly because I didn't really care for the tea's taste. Her eyes got big. "You need more leaves so that your fortune will be great."

 Never before had I seen it happen, but she let me double-dip. She didn't say anything, just bunched her lips together and gave me an approving nod. After everybody got their leaves, our mothers would bring in hot kettles of water and fill our cups. Grandma would sit on the couch between my brother and I, and would talk to all of us as we finished our tea. Somehow, she knew just the right topic to get our interest. She was amazing and she delivered her message with love. Each of us sucked down every drop of tea. We understood that if we left any water, it would be considered tears. Excess water could put a damper on the entire reading.

We had instructions from previous 'Grandma Times.' We all knew that when we finished the tea, we were to turn the cup over on the saucer. With our wish in mind, we knew to turn the cup handle three times around and tap the back of the cup three times. Then we had to wait until it was our turn to be loved. After she finished with my brother's reading, she placed their cups back onto the saucer right side up. When she got to my cup and looked inside, she closed her eyes and smiled. "You are going to be in the movie industry." She looked at me as if she was repeating something in her head. "You are going to be a storyteller. And many people all over the world will hear your stories, and through your tales, you will heal people's hearts."

I was seven years old when she told what my calling was. I'm a storyteller and a healer of hearts.

 

 

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