I was counting to a million. I'd reached a point that I rarely reach. I was overwhelmed
with anger, and it was a real struggle to keep my mouth shut. I knew that
no matter what words escaped my gritted teeth right then, they would sound
extremely hostile. If I had said, "Trix are for kids," Harold, my grandma's
boyfriend, would've driven the car off the road in fear and trembling. So,
I took a few deep breaths and started counting. My father had taught me to
think before talking when I'm upset. My pride often frustrates me. Frequently God pulls out all the stops when
he wants to humble me. Believe me, he has the resources—like this particular
lesson in patience. My father actually planned the trip, but I don't think
he planned the mercurial rise of my temper when he accepted Grandma's offer
to take me back to college. I was distressed when informed of my transportation arrangements. Grandma
is 83 and her boyfriend/traveling companion, Harold, is 183. It was hard
to look forward to being sentenced to two-and-a-half days of endless talk
about people I don't know and small bladders. I had been promised the whole back seat to myself. Friday at 8 a.m. my luggage
and I were loaded together back there. My feet never touched the floor between
St. Petersburg, Florida, and Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky. I sat
cross-legged or lay in an "S" shape as my belongings would allow. We pulled out of the driveway, and I made faces at my mom and brother as
they waved from the sidewalk. We all knew I wasn't kidding when I clawed
at the window like a doomed mime. Mom gave me a "poor Valerie" look as she
slowly shrank in the distance. We were cruising at the breakneck speed of about 11 mph, and I feared that
this was the speed of things to come. I wasn't wrong. We crept onto Interstate 75 and went 45 mph. Frankly, I was embarrassed.
A semi-comatose state was my best defense against inane conversation. It
also helped control my apology reflex. I wanted to tell all the other drivers
I was sorry that we were going so slow and explain that I, a skilled 22-year-old
driver, wasn't allowed at the wheel because Grandma's insurance wouldn't
cover anyone under 25. I decided that a yellow, diamond-shaped "Raisins on
Board" sign would help other drivers understand what seemed like a one-car
funeral procession. The first day's unremarkable, yet unforgettable, travel ended at 4 p.m. Grandma
and Harold were tired, so we checked into a motel somewhere in the middle
of Georgia. We unloaded and walked over to the Blue Dog Cafeteria for dinner.
I think that since I attend a Christian college, I was elected the family
pastor. I was asked to say grace before the meal. Don't get me wrong. I never tire of thanking God for his many blessings,
but praying out loud when I was so annoyed just didn't feel right. But they
sat there, heads bowed, holding hands, and when I hesitated, I heard an
insistent, "Valerie!" So I obliged and tried to think of some aspect of the
trip I was thankful for. The eating commenced and I observed the lovebirds at feeding time. At 83,
my grandmother is still an attractive woman. Her fine skin is draped over
her delicately chiseled features. Only from the chin down does she begin
to get baggy. Harold, on the other hand, sags from the top of his head. He
has an unusually large lower lip that jiggles when he talks. I got grossed
out watching him eat and smooching on Grandma. She must love him for his
personality. Harold is crazy in love with Grandma. He can (and did) expound night and
day about his adoration for her. She would coo back and they'd smile at each
other. He would kiss her and she'd work up a good blush. And so we passed
the evening, one nauseated college student and two lovesick octogenarians. Then everything got serious. I guess that since I'd been elected the family holy one, they thought they
needed to explain everything to me in case I was sitting in judgment on them.
I wasn't. And I didn't want to hear all the gory details of their relationship
either. All I cared about was that they were both happy and kept each other
from getting bored. Before she met Harold, Grandma's answer to "What did you do today?" was a
list of trivial activities beginning with brushing her teeth. Now she could
care less if I called; she's busy with Harold, and that's good. Anyway, they wanted to put my mind at ease. They were going to dispel any
conjecture in my mind about that burning question. To be honest, there
was very little going on in my head. I had put it on cruise control for the
trip. Harold said it. "We're not having sex." I was a little shocked, yet amused. I wanted to blurt out, "Well, I certainly
hope not!" However, Dad's training on tongue taming won out, and I listened
to the end of Harold's speech on sin and virtue. I had to give them credit. While the thought had never entered my mind, it
had certainly crossed theirs. The world says, "Hey, they're old; let them
have their last hurrah while they can." God's word says that sex is a reward
of marriage, at any age. Since Grandma and Harold don't plan to marry, they
are only concerned with what's right. After Harold's revelation and explanation, they looked relieved and exhausted.
Thinking to myself that no conversation could top the previous one, I decided
to wander the parking lot for a while. As I was making my exit, Harold said,
"Just call me Grandpa." He patted me on the shoulder and I half-smiled. "OK, Harold," I assured him (vowing never to let the word "Grandpa" cross
my lips). The next day started out bright and ugly. I resumed my sleep position until
we neared Atlanta. Of course our cruising speed of 45 mph was a handicap,
but it gave me, the seeing-eye granddaughter, time to read road signs aloud.
I tried to ignore the 55 mph speed-limit signs. I attempted to give calm driving advice. Harold's reaction was always to
slow down further and look around. I reminded him that if we went any slower
we would get a ticket. After Atlanta the terrain became a little hillier. On the downside one time,
I watched the speedometer needle struggle up to 56 mph. My nose started to
run, I was so excited. Grandma, sensing the gradual shift into the parameters
of normal driving, threw all affection aside and shrieked, "Harold!" The verbal slap startled Harold and dashed my hopes of a faster ride. He
applied the brakes and started to regain control of the "speeding" car. His
head shook from side to side, his lip, confused as to which way to go, simply
quivered. I rolled my eyes. Then I slumped over to another pseudo-nap and began
categorizing things going slower than we were: trees, parked cars and road
kill. Soon, the piercing blue lights of a state trooper's car came into view ahead
of us. Harold spotted him and started to brake, the way guilty speeders do.
I clenched my teeth tighter and tried to send a telepathic message to the
officer: "Pull them over and give them a ticket for going too slow!" That's when I started counting. I was up to about 5,200 when Grandma let a little fresh air into the torture
chamber. She turned in her seat as her aged spine would allow and meekly
apologized, basically for being old. She assured me that her motive behind
the trip was love for me and concern for my education (and not subtle torture,
as I was experiencing it). I thanked her sincerely. I began to compose my own apology. I had just been crowned Twit of the Year by two people I'd referred to previously
as dried fruit. I began to view things through their age-impaired eyes. A 55-mph speed limit
means that you can legally go up to 55. Losing your eyesight after enjoying
it all your life must be frustrating. Falling in love again at 83 (or 183)
must be exhilarating. Being old and having your body deteriorate must be
tiring. Resisting the temptations to sin, even after a lifetime, must be
hard. Being able to help your granddaughter get back to college, when you
had dreamed of going yourself, must make you feel proud. I had been humbled. I loved my grandmother and I loved Harold (and his lip).
I still ran up and hugged a pillar when we finally arrived at my dorm, but
I'll never forget my ride with the Raisins. Copyright © 1999 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information. | 
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