I know now that the man who sat with me on the old wooden stairs that hot summer night over thirty-five years ago was not a tall man. But to a five-year-old, he was a giant. We sat side by side, watching the sun go down behind the old Texaco service station across the busy street. A street I was never allowed to cross unless accompanied by an adult.
Cherry-scented smoke from Grampy's pipe kept the hungry mosquitoes at bay while gray, wispy swirls danced around our heads. Now and again, he blew a smoke ring and laughed as I tried to target the hole with my finger. I, clad in a cool summer nightie, and Grampy, in his sleeveless T-shirt, sat watching the traffic. We counted cars and tried to guess the color of the next one to turn the corner.
As the fourth of six children, I was often caught in the middle—too young for some things, too old for others. That night was no different. While my baby brothers slept and my older siblings played out of sight, I stayed with Grampy, and I was content.
"Thirsty?" Grampy asked, pipe still in mouth.
"Yes," I replied.
"How would you like to run over to the gas station and get yourself a bottle of Coke?"
I couldn't believe my ears. In our family, Coke was a rare treat. I had only ever had a few tantalizing sips, never my own bottle.
"Okay," I said shyly, already wondering how to cross the street.
Grampy fished a mound of coins from his pocket and told me to pick out a dime. After helping me to the curb, he said, "I'll stay here and listen for the babies. I'll tell you when it's safe to cross. You go get your Coke and come back. Wait for my signal to cross back."
My heart pounded. Clutching the dime, I was breathless with excitement.
Grampy held my hand, looked both ways, then stepped off the curb. "It's safe," he said, letting go. I ran faster than ever before. The street seemed so wide. Reaching the other side, I turned to see him standing right where I'd left him, smiling proudly. I waved.
"Go on, hurry up!" he yelled.
Inside the dark garage, the familiar hum of the Coca-Cola machine guided me. I walked straight to the big red-and-white dispenser, inserted my dime with practiced certainty, and heard the bottles shift. On tiptoes, I opened the heavy door. A neat row of thick green bottles, necks pointed right at me, greeted me with icy cold. I grabbed one, feeling the cool glass against my sweaty hands. Using the wall-mounted opener, I popped the cap, which I retrieved as a precious souvenir.
Coke in hand, I marched back out. Grampy was waiting patiently. "Stop right there," he called. After a car passed, he stepped off the curb again. "Come on, now. Run!"
I did. Cool brown foam sprayed my hands. "Don't ever do that alone," he warned. I held the bottle tightly, afraid he'd make me pour it out. He didn't. One long swallow of the cold beverage cooled my sweating body. I don't think I ever felt so proud.