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Authors: Jim Bainbridge
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about what he does at school. He’s an intelligent, nice young man. I hope you two can become friends. You live in very different worlds and can learn much from each other.”
One of the first things I learned from Elio was that the bright colored lights and decorations I’d seen a few weeks earlier while out shopping with Grandma in Healdsburg weren’t expressions of celebration for the winter solstice; they were part of a religious festival called Christmas. He whispered this information to me, adding that his ma had told him not to tell me about Christmas because it would make my ma mad. He further informed me that only babies called their mothers and fathers “Mommy” and “Daddy.” He had always, so he claimed, called his parents “Ma” and “Pa.”
As soon as that conversation ended, I called my mother, who told me that “Mom” and “Dad” would be appropriate names for them now that I was getting to be such a mature girl. I didn’t mention anything about Christmas.
Thereafter, for half an hour or so each day, I sat watching and listening as Elio invaded my cozy little world with new ideas. “Ma says your grandpa is filthy rich,” he said one day, “but he won’t buy you any toys or new clothes. And he won’t let anyone else give you any, either, not even your ma or pa. He won’t even let you watch movies or play games on the internet, or anything. It’s all pretty weird if you ask me.”
Of course, I defended Grandpa, saying that the internet was a huge, distracting ocean of information with “an almost vanishingly small signal-to-noise ratio.” Elio asked what a signal-to-noise ratio was. I didn’t know exactly, but I confidently answered that it meant I would waste a lot of time trying to find anything useful there.
Before those daily talks with Elio began, I hadn’t paid much attention to the sparse, simple furnishings of our house or to our nearly twenty-year-old Mercedes car; nor had I thought it odd that all my clothes were hand-me-downs from Carlos’s three grown boys—all, that is, except for my sunglasses, white gloves, and the white hat on which Grandma had sewn flaps to cover my neck and the sides of my face.
Late one afternoon as Grandma and I puttered in our garden, I confided in her that Elio thought it weird that I wasn’t allowed to watch movies or play on the internet, that all my toys were home-fabricated, and that my clothes were second hand from boys of “one of the workers,” a phrase Elio had used. After making sure I understood that Carlos was not “one of the workers,” that he was, in fact, much more important for the vineyard than she was, Grandma sweetened her voice and said, “Now, honey, about the clothes and toys and internet: Grandpa wants love and ideas and good music—culture—to fill you and give you a fertile mind. One of his greatest fears is that wealth will soften and corrupt you. He and I both want you to learn that you can have a wonderful life that is rich and fulfilling and overflowing with love, even though you consume few material things in the process. I’m confident you’ll understand this someday. But in the meanwhile, please know that Grandpa and I love you with all our hearts and are raising you the best way we know how. Aren’t your clothes comfortable?”
“Yes,” I answered, for they were comfortable; I’d picked them out myself at Carlos’s house, and Grandma had perfected them with appropriate alterations. After running the matter quickly through my mind again, I added, “Elio can’t know how nice my clothes are. He’s never had a chance to try them on.”
“That’s right, honey,” she replied, and we went on with our work, undoubtedly appearing, had a stranger seen us, to be a contented grandmother cultivating her garden beside her barefoot grandchild, who had boyish hair (cut by then like Elio’s, the way I wanted it) and who wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt and a pair of patched and faded jeans.
After
One of the first things I learned from Elio was that the bright colored lights and decorations I’d seen a few weeks earlier while out shopping with Grandma in Healdsburg weren’t expressions of celebration for the winter solstice; they were part of a religious festival called Christmas. He whispered this information to me, adding that his ma had told him not to tell me about Christmas because it would make my ma mad. He further informed me that only babies called their mothers and fathers “Mommy” and “Daddy.” He had always, so he claimed, called his parents “Ma” and “Pa.”
As soon as that conversation ended, I called my mother, who told me that “Mom” and “Dad” would be appropriate names for them now that I was getting to be such a mature girl. I didn’t mention anything about Christmas.
Thereafter, for half an hour or so each day, I sat watching and listening as Elio invaded my cozy little world with new ideas. “Ma says your grandpa is filthy rich,” he said one day, “but he won’t buy you any toys or new clothes. And he won’t let anyone else give you any, either, not even your ma or pa. He won’t even let you watch movies or play games on the internet, or anything. It’s all pretty weird if you ask me.”
Of course, I defended Grandpa, saying that the internet was a huge, distracting ocean of information with “an almost vanishingly small signal-to-noise ratio.” Elio asked what a signal-to-noise ratio was. I didn’t know exactly, but I confidently answered that it meant I would waste a lot of time trying to find anything useful there.
Before those daily talks with Elio began, I hadn’t paid much attention to the sparse, simple furnishings of our house or to our nearly twenty-year-old Mercedes car; nor had I thought it odd that all my clothes were hand-me-downs from Carlos’s three grown boys—all, that is, except for my sunglasses, white gloves, and the white hat on which Grandma had sewn flaps to cover my neck and the sides of my face.
Late one afternoon as Grandma and I puttered in our garden, I confided in her that Elio thought it weird that I wasn’t allowed to watch movies or play on the internet, that all my toys were home-fabricated, and that my clothes were second hand from boys of “one of the workers,” a phrase Elio had used. After making sure I understood that Carlos was not “one of the workers,” that he was, in fact, much more important for the vineyard than she was, Grandma sweetened her voice and said, “Now, honey, about the clothes and toys and internet: Grandpa wants love and ideas and good music—culture—to fill you and give you a fertile mind. One of his greatest fears is that wealth will soften and corrupt you. He and I both want you to learn that you can have a wonderful life that is rich and fulfilling and overflowing with love, even though you consume few material things in the process. I’m confident you’ll understand this someday. But in the meanwhile, please know that Grandpa and I love you with all our hearts and are raising you the best way we know how. Aren’t your clothes comfortable?”
“Yes,” I answered, for they were comfortable; I’d picked them out myself at Carlos’s house, and Grandma had perfected them with appropriate alterations. After running the matter quickly through my mind again, I added, “Elio can’t know how nice my clothes are. He’s never had a chance to try them on.”
“That’s right, honey,” she replied, and we went on with our work, undoubtedly appearing, had a stranger seen us, to be a contented grandmother cultivating her garden beside her barefoot grandchild, who had boyish hair (cut by then like Elio’s, the way I wanted it) and who wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt and a pair of patched and faded jeans.
After
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