the value of a $20 bill
by Christine M. Estel
Here you go Buttercup, he'd say as he slipped one into my hand or my coat pocket. Or into my bookbag, or wherever. That's what he did when we drove anywhere together—doing it on the sly, usually in the middle of a story, so I would be unsuspecting. Of course I knew his game.
The money Pop gave me was wasted on hot French fries from the cafeteria, even though I brown-bagged my lunch every day. Some I'd spend on black licorice and Tastykake's lemon pies, two of our favorite convenience-store treats. Sometimes I used it for the occasional mall trip or latest rom-com at AMC. And with time and maturity, I eventually saved a bunch for a rainy day.
Each time I was gifted, I'd say, Aww, Pop, you don't have to! to which he'd playfully reply, Aww, but hunny, yes I do! Then I'd thank him and we'd both laugh as we moved along. He was a giver, never accepting “no” from me on the subject.
Pop grew up in the Swampoodle neighborhood of North Philadelphia, the only son of five children. His Irish Catholic parents raised him on God and tough love, and while his parents enjoyed pleasantries occasionally, like dining out or attending the opera, the family generally pinched pennies. But we never missed a meal, he'd defend in his recollections of childhood, a common theme on our drives.
He'd reminisce about his mother giving him ten cents in the morning for a ginger ale and pack of crackers after school, the little extra she could provide, and how he enjoyed playing basketball with the "publics" (public school kids). His storytelling captivated me, like I had lived it myself.
When we'd drive through Center City, he'd conduct my review: So remember, the streets are numbered east to west, and don't forget that Broad is technically 14th Street. North to south, almost all names are trees. He was ensuring I knew my way around, in case of an emergency.
Sometimes we'd have to park on Market Street, generally in a no-park zone, so he could quickly collect his next lot of subpoenas to deliver on behalf of Sweeney & Sheehan. We'll be okay here, he'd say, as he slid a "POLICE"-inscribed placard on the dash, a mark of protection against tickets. Once I had my own license, he'd leave the keys in the ignition in case I needed to move. After he'd return, I'd hear more stories about the old buses and trains, the "things that would come to [him] at redlights," his antics during KP duty in the Army. Except he never called it that. It was always "the service," a fitting moniker for a giving man.
I'd learn about Princess Grace of Monaco, as we wound around Kelly Drive and past Boathouse Row, and we'd take drives to Girard College so he could teach me more. If we were up for it, we'd stop at Pat's or Geno's, whatever his mood that day. I don't discriminate, he'd joke.
No matter what the drive, or for how long, I always got a $20 bill, a privilege reserved for his first grandchild. At the time, I loved the money, but now I value the lessons and memories he linked to it.
In my rough calculation, I received enough $20 bills throughout my childhood and teens to equal the tallest point of William Penn's hat on City Hall—a couple times over, but likely more. But he gave so much more than that.
I'd give all those $20 bills back in exchange for some more of my grandfather's time and love. That would be priceless.
Christine M. Estel's grandfather died eight years ago this January, but his memory lives on in her mind and writing. She can still see his mischievous smile, hear his chuckle, and smell his Campho-Phenique-swathed hands. She lives and writes in the Philadelphia area, and she tweets from @EstellingAStory.