She stood outside the gates to the fairground, her calm demeanor masking the excitement inside. Clutched tightly in her hand was a single quarter – the precious fee for a ride, a game or whatever treat seemed most worth the investment of her only coin.
When she got to the front of the line, she discovered it cost a quarter to get inside. She handed it over and, with it, her dream of an experience different from that of her everyday life as a young girl who worked on her family’s farm in the early 1900s.
***
I can assume she wandered the grounds taking in the sights and sounds, probably gazing wistfully at those who had the fare for something beyond the price of admission, but I don’t know. I don’t even know how the above scene played out – I’m just taking writer’s license – but I remember the day my grandmother told me this story.
It was a short conversation – simply recalling a memory. “I was so excited,” she said, “but it cost a quarter to get in and that was all I had so I didn’t get to do anything else.” She didn’t say any more – no complaints about the unfairness of it, no expression of disappointment. But to me, the mere fact of her sharing this story suggested all that and more.
I can’t remember what I said to her – some expression of comfort or sympathy, I’m sure – but I remember how I felt. Later that day I cried and cried over the thought of my Grandma as a young girl missing out on something she wanted so desperately. I have so many wonderful memories of her, and I remember her as a strong, independent woman, but for some reason this one is always a part of my thoughts of her, and it always, always brings me to tears.
I didn’t grow up in an abundance of wealth, but my sadness was not because I related to her story. I went to private school – an average kid from an average family – and many of my classmates were like me, whose parents saved or sacrificed to send them there. My parents managed this and other things like sports and travel opportunities during very tough times, and to this day I still don’t know how they did it.
There were others who had more, of course, and I was aware of that. But never once have I felt like I missed out on anything. I have nothing that stands out to me as something I wish I could have done, if only we could have afforded it. So when I listened to my Grandma’s story it was with the heart of someone who had never felt that sadness.
That event, which had happened nearly 90 years before, affected her. It stuck with her. Perhaps in some way it changed who she was. It influenced her values and her sense of how a certain experience can make – or not make – a memory.
It has changed who I am as well, I think. It’s made me more aware of how precious childhood experiences are. It’s not about the money, it’s about the memories. And I know this because of the story of my Grandma missing one of hers for want of a quarter.
My Grandma and her horse, Chubby
***
This post is in response to an Indie Ink Writer’s Challenge prompt from Katri: “A story from the point of view of someone who’s never been sad.” This could probably be a really great fiction piece, but this is the story that came to mind, and the one I wanted to tell.
I challenged Flaming Nyx with “You have the power to change ONE person’s life for the better. Who do you choose and how would you do it?” Her response is here.
And speaking of Indie Ink, I’m so excited that one of my posts is featured there today. Please come and visit!
