THE saying goes that you never appreciate what you have until it is no longer there. Whether it’s a state of mind, a job or a person, we live so caught up in our everyday worries, in the relatively minor things, that we forget to stop, once in a while, and smell our roses and appreciate their fragrance. It is even more true when you’re young and life and its opportunities seem endless — when you feel that there is so much to do and so little time to do things in. Indeed, when you are young, having to spend any length of time with "old fogies" is deemed the greatest punishment that could befall you.
One of the very few exceptions to this rule was my grandfather. An afternoon spent in his company in his library was enough to revive the soul. Here was a man so generous that he never begrudged a second of his time. His family was his life and his job as a legally authorized translator — during the latter part of his life — brought him into contact with many people, their problems and their different perspectives. Many took advantage of him — yet it never seemed to bother him at all. On the contrary, all during the war, as the Lebanese pound continued to be devalued, his fees remained fixed, to the point that they became ludicrous. Yet he never budged. He wished to help as many individuals as he could with his knowledge.
He enchanted many by playing the "oud" (the lute) at most family events; his speeches touched many and his poems on special occasions such as engagements, weddings and births were something we looked forward to with great anticipation. He had a daily column in a local newspaper, each one on a different subject, but always with the same theme in mind — he called them "Tonic Topics" or "monishat." He loved books and encouraged all his children and grandchildren to enjoy them as much as he did. He was forgiving to an astonishing degree. When his son was shot on his way home from college one day, the entire neighborhood was in an uproar. Each man vowed to bring my grandfather the head of the person responsible. Grandfather didn’t want that for what purpose would it serve? Would it bring back his son? He was truly an exceptional man in every sense. Yet it is only now that I have really come to appreciate all that he was and all that he instilled in me.
Many years ago, my first attempt at writing was a poem about the civil war in Lebanon. And rather than deride it as the ramblings of a 10-year-old, my grandfather arranged to have the poem sent to the local newspaper for printing. Not only that but he gave me the piece as it appeared in the newspaper, carefully pasted it into a book and he encouraged me to keep on writing. At every visit from that one on, I was constantly questioned: "Have you written anything lately?" Each time I admitted ashamedly that I hadn’t. He insisted that I shouldn’t worry and gave me a special autographed book in which he had written some helpful advice. One piece of advice dealt with the magic of writing. I read and re-read it so many times that I knew it by heart; I hoped one day it would come true.
A few months ago I was jarred out of bed by an idea that wouldn’t leave my head. I could hear the words so clearly it was as if someone were reading from a printed page. I quickly went into my study, found a pad and a pencil and feverishly began to write the words forming in my head. My hand could hardly keep up; the words were coming so fast. Thirty minutes later I stopped and sat back to read what I had written. Amazingly it all made sense. Only then did I remember what my grandfather had written once: in an interview with Somerset Maugham, the famous English writer had admitted that he never actually wrote a story because he wanted to — but that instead the story came to him, demanding to be written. My grandfather’s admonition to listen to my subconscious because you never knew when and idea would strike had finally come true.
I refined the idea and lo and behold, it got published! Now as I sit back and enjoy seeing my name on the page of the newspaper, I can’t help wishing that my grandfather could see (and perhaps he can). I know deep in my heart that were it not for his encouragement this day might never have come. His generosity of spirit and timely advice to a 10-year-old continues to spur this 20-something woman on. My greatest regret is that he passed away before he saw me get married, to dance and share in my happiness; yet my greatest consolation is that I will forever remember him as he was on my last visit: I had brought my fiance to introduce to him and though my grandfather was rather ill, he sat up, picked up his "oud" and gave us a rousing rendition of his favorite songs.
I believe that though he died almost a year ago he is with us always and as a new idea comes into my head, I remember him again: his wisdom, his charm and his generosity. Why was he a great man? He wasn’t a politician; he didn’t build any towers; he never won a million pounds but in some way he touched all our lives and made us want to be better than we were. His life is a lesson to us all — that maybe if we truly believe it, the miraculous can happen, that generosity never goes unrewarded and that by keeping a young spirit, you may just live to be a hundred.
