LOVE THE SINNER

He sat on an upturned bucket with his one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, pipe clutched in one hand, his knee in the other. I went up and stood beside him thinking he would break the ice. We shared space for what seemed a long time. A column of blue smoke rose from the pipe bowl then lost its way going by his shoulder. Roy was my grandpa, my mother’s father. He lived with us. I asked, “Did you plant that tree?” alluding to the freshly planted, 4 ft. maple sapling in our front yard. The dirt that clung to the shovel point was still dark and damp. His smirk was authentic: I had set him up with a straight line and he would supply the hook. “What did you think I did with it?” He looked off in the other direction; I answered with something juvenile like, “Yeah.” We had a thing, just between us. Today the phrase would be, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” What went on between us, stayed between us. 

My folks loved the sinner but not the sin. He was a widower which gave him license, partial to drink and to ladies with died hair and painted faces. There was no alcohol allowed in our house but I knew he kept a half pint of bourbon under the driver’s seat in his car. I knew more than I was supposed to know and it was alright. So many obvious things I remember modeled by my parents but with Roy it was subtle, indirect but perfectly clear: when you have prevailed, leave your adversary an honorable way out.

I was always trying to provoke him, trying to catch him off guard but his silent scorn was as telling as a cutting remark. Whatever his part, there was a kernel of truth and a tinge of coarsely framed affection. I sensed that my contribution had not been sufficient and it was still my turn. “How long before it’s big enough to climb?” For him to come back immediately would have broken the spell. Finally, “Maybe 10 years,” followed by a short pause, “You’ll be too busy to be climbing trees.” I shot back, “No, I’ll never be that busy.” He stood up slowly, took his shovel and bucket and started for the garage. Over his shoulder he spoke just loud enough for me to hear, something about, “Planting trees is always a good thing.” I uncoiled the garden hose and watered the immigrant maple; it wasn’t the first tree we had planted.