The Time Pawpaw Bribed Me With $50

When I was a little girl, I worshiped my maternal grandfather. The man hung the moon in my eyes. It's still impossible for me to see him as just man, capable of mistakes.

Now that I'm older and can assess things with a bit more insight, I have to admit that my devotion to the man can predominately be attributed to one thing – bribery. Papaw bought and paid for my undying affection, and I was a willing and obedient customer. It started because I was his first grandchild and, bless his heart, he would give me anything I wanted. Unfortunately for him, purchasing my loyalty didn't come cheap. By the time I was in high school, it had cost him a car.

Blackmail and bribery aside, my grandfather was a truly amazing man. He was a veteran of World War II, where he manned a large gun on the deck of the U.S.S. Washington. By the end of the war, one too many deafening attacks by Japanese dive-bombers left him barely 19 years old and with only 25 percent of his hearing intact.

He was 16 when he joined the Marines, lying about his age so he could defend his country. As he boarded a train for Camp Pendleton, he told my then-13-year-old grandmother to wait for him. He would be back, he said. He loved her. She would be older and they would get married, he promised. Then he disappeared onto the train and my grandmother stood weeping with his mother on the platform until the train was completely out of site.

For the next three years, Mamaw would run to the mailbox every day, hoping for a postcard – or if she were really lucky – a letter with very little of the content blacked out by censors. He would put little clues in the text of the letters so she would know where he was.

One such letter reads: "Tell the neighbor Miss Pearl that Mr. Harper sent his regards." There was so no neighbor named Pearl or a family friend named Harper. She read it twice before she fully realized it was another clue. Then Mamaw's heart would flutter and her hands would shake a little as she unfolded a map of the World on her bed and circled Pearl Harbor. She knew that by the time his clandestine message reached her that his ship had sailed on to another battle, but having their secret made her feel closer to him and that left her with the resolve that she could make it a little longer without him.

His letters never told of the danger he was in or the death he witnessed. In stead, he filled them with descriptions of the world he was seeing from the deck of a battleship. "Japan is the most beautiful place I have ever seen," he wrote. "When this mess is over we'll travel. I want to go out west. That's where we'll go first."

The years passed slowly, but Papaw was true to his word. He returned home to her -- a real-life hero -- and he took his new bride many places. On their honeymoon, they went to the New Orleans. A picture of them outside the zoo shows two teenagers, madly in love. With his arm around her waist and huge smile on her face, you would never know that they hadn't spoken in-person for years, having been separated by a war that consumed half the World.

After he returned, the years passed quickly. A first child was born, a daughter. Then another baby girl – my mother – came one day shy of five years later. They both worked hard, Papaw at an asbestos plant and Mamaw in a factory sewing women's under garments. They saved and invested and were able to do the traveling they spoke of.

By the time the girls had grown up, gone to college, married and had children of their own, Papaw was ready to show the World to the next generation. Which brings us to the crux of the story: Papaw bribing me for the first time.

I was eight years old and we were standing at the overlook of the Grand Canyon. For the last 24 hours I had been asking questions about this place. Was it deep? How deep? How did it get made? A river? But then why aren't they a bunch of Grand Canyons if there are a bunch of rivers? There's a bridge that goes over it? NO, I don't want to go on it. You can ride a mule to the bottom? (This is where my grandmother told me to take three big steps back from the guardrail and informed my grandfather that NO member of our party was going down the canyon on the back of a mule.)

This moment was the first time in my life that I can remember thinking: Man, the old lady is dragging us down. Papaw and I wanted to ride the mule! Clearly, there would have to be a diversion if we were going to violate Mamaw's three-foot rule and actually experience the Grand Canyon up close. My grandfather, having had fifty or so years experience diverting my grandmother's attention, saw what would turn out to be the savior of the day: A gift shop. If there was one thing in this world that superceded the safety of her husband and grandchild, it was her passion for shopping.

Watching my grandmother stalk off to spend money like a drunken sailor, my Papaw said: "That ought to buy us an hour or two. Come on."

And with that he grabbed my chubby little hand and led me down a path marked: DO NOT ENTER - Park Service Only – NO VISITERS.

"Are the mules this way?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Mamaw won't be gone long enough for us to do that. Lets just go down the trail here instead."

Marching down a dirt and clay path that descended from the ridge of the Grand Canyon, my grandfather held my stubby hand tightly and warned me to watch where I stepped. After about ten minutes of climbing downward, we arrived at a small cave that was indented into the side of the canyon. The path went farther down, but clearly became gradually more perilous. My grandfather said we wouldn't go any farther because it looked too dangerous, instead he led me to the edge and showed me the Colorado River below. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He stood beside me for several minutes, silently studying at the reds and oranges of the canyon walls. I snapped pictures with my pink camera.

A little while later we began the descent to the top of the canyon. I can remember my Papaw holding to the canyon wall with one hand while his older hand held tightly to my arm. His right knee hurt him -- an old injury he'd said. He tried to pretend it didn't really bother him, but I could tell he struggles sometimes, like the day in canyon. When in pain, he walked slow and and always held to something steady, just as he was doing on our hike out. As we rounded the last corner on our way up, Papaw pulled me close to him and asked me if I heard people talking and where the voices were originating. I told him the sounds were coming from around the bend. What are they saying, he asked? Park stuff, I answered. I think they're park rangers, I said.

An instant later he had tugged me onto a side trail, which looked even more precarious than the one we were on. Lets go around them, he said. It never occurred to me until I was much older that we were in a place we shouldn't be and that my grandfather was avoiding the authorities. I trusted him implicitly and just assumed this was another grand adventure.

The new trail, he said, followed the other one, but was much closer to the edge of the canyon. Go slow and don't let go of my arm, he said. I can remember looking down and seeing about six inches between us and a sharp drop into the Colorado River. My heart fluttered a bit, but I knew he wouldn't lead me astray, so I pressed forward, one step at a time. About ten paces ahead of me and slightly to the right I could see the black guardrails that lined the public viewing area of the canyon.

As I neared the rails I spotted my grandmother in a tizzy. The sight of her clearly coming unhinged, panicked looking for us, caused me to stumble on loose rocks. My ankle twisted to the left and felt myself loose my center of gravity. Ever true, my grandfather's hand was gripping my arm and he pulled back to safety as we watched my lime green sunglasses tumble from my head and down into the canyon below. Involuntarily I had let out a scream and altered my grandmother to our location. As she snatched me over the guardrail, she began screaming at my grandfather.

"Daisy," he said in a slow, lingering way that always got her attention. "Daisy, she just slipped and fell under the rail. Its okay, I got her. We're safe."

"I told you to stay three steps back from the rail!" she said to me, near tears.

I eyed my grandfather. We both knew I hadn't slipped and fallen under the rail. He had led me down the path marked DO NOT ENTER. Yet, his eyes pleaded with me: Don't tell her, baby. PLEASE. You know how she is. It will be so much worse if we tell her the truth.

And so I wrapped my arms around my grandmother's legs and wailed: "Papaw saved me. I just slipped and fell and if he hadn't of grabbed me when he did I would have DIED!"

Then I turned my grandfather and hugged him tightly.

Under other circumstances, my grandmother would have seen through out little song and dance bit. She would have realized that there was no way for me to "fall" under the guardrail, much less have Papaw shimmy through in time to save me. But she was terrified and not thinking clearly so she just accepted it as truth. My grandfather, realizing his unbelievable luck, hugged Mamaw tightly and suggested she run to the restroom before we left. We'd meet her at the car, he told her.

As she walked off toward the visitor's center, my grandfather pulled his worn, leather wallet out of his back pocket. He pulled a $50 bill out and pressed it into my tiny hand.

"This is for you to buy some souvenirs in Mexico," he said. "Thanks for not saying anything. Sometimes its just better to not worry, Mamaw. Do you understand."

No, I didn't fully comprehend the delicate balance of having a good time and keeping my grandmother happy. I did, however, understand that 50 bucks was a FORTUNE to me and that simply not telling my grandmother about a rather amazing experience in the Grand Canyon was a small task that resulted in an incredibly high yield.