Wednesday, October 18, 2017 // The Statement
6C
Personal Statement: Puck
I
t’s March 1996. I’m only a few days old,
and coming home for the first time.
I was not old enough to remember
anything, but I will always know this: my
grandpa couldn’t be there for me when I was
born, so he sent the next best thing — a giant,
stuffed dog to hold his place as my companion
until he could travel up from Chicago to visit me
in Michigan.
***
I’m only a few weeks old and already proving
to be a handful. I get stomach aches. I’m nosy,
and anxious and curious. I’m particular about
my surroundings, what clothes are on my body,
who’s around me. But the biggest problem is I
won’t sleep.
My grandpa comes up to visit on the weekends,
when he isn’t working. My grandpa, grandma
and mom all tag team to try to calm me to sleep.
But it’s clear that my grandpa is particularly good
at it — his calm presence lulls me. He rocks me,
walking back and forth all night to the top of
the stairs in my house and back. Even after I fall
asleep, he continues to walk, just so I can rest.
Through all hours of the night, we walk back and
forth, in peaceful silence — one that I will find
to be unique to our relationship, and one of my
favorite parts about being around my grandpa.
We’ve never needed words.
***
I’m two years old, visiting my grandparents’
house in Florida with my parents. The warm,
muggy air that would grow to be familiar over
many trips was still new, as was their expansive,
bright ranch. But my grandpa and I are off on our
own adventure.
There’s an owl nest in his neighborhood, and
he wants to show me. We take a walk down
the road, him patiently beside me and then,
eventually, carrying me. He points out the nest
to me — it’s dark, but I can still see. I see tiny
baby owls, their eyes glowing in the darkness.
He’s holding me tight. We go back to the nest
often, the two of us.
***
I’m maybe three or four years old. I’m at my
grandparents’ cottage in Northern Michigan
with my cousins. My cousin Nick has just gotten
a new toy — a talking Mr. Potato Head, from
the new movie “Toy Story.” When you press a
button, Mr. Potato Head will talk to you. My
grandpa presses it.
“You’re a hockey puck!” Mr. Potato Head
tells him.
My cousins and I crack up, and my grandpa
joins right in.
“You’re a hockey puck!” we parrot back to
him. He laughs, big and loud, his shoulders
shaking — this is how he always laughed,
even when the joke wasn’t funny. But this was
hysterical — our grandfather, a hockey puck?
We loved it.
My grandpa gave everyone a nickname —
Leroy, Tutu, Au Revoir — random names that
made him think of you; that’s how you knew
you’d made it in with him. That day, my grandpa
got his own: Puck. And that’s what we called
him, from then on.
***
I’m four years old, sitting in my home in
Michigan. My grandparents are visiting. Puck
and I are sitting together at my kitchen table.
We’re drawing together on big sheets of colored
construction paper.
I love to draw with Puck. I love to do most
anything with Puck. He’s patient with me,
always looking at my creations when I call to
him, letting me help with his careful, beautiful
drawings. He’s a talented artist, always
sketching — but when I’m there, the clean lines
and accuracy don’t matter. I can help all I want.
***
I’m seven years old, and visiting my
grandparents’ new cottage — a closer to
make the journey from Chicago to Northern
Michigan shorter. They decide to make a new
purchase: a golf cart, a Northern Michigan
staple. Puck and my brother go to pick it up a
few days after we arrive — it’s bright yellow, and
we all love it.
Puck endeavors to teach my cousins, brother
and me how to drive it — an admirable decision,
given we are all under twelve years old. We sit
in the driver’s seat, with Puck next to us riding
passenger. He shows each of us which pedal
is the gas, which is the brake, how to turn the
wheel and steer it where we want it to go. My
brother, too small to reach the pedals, sits on
Puck’s lap and steers.
We drive up and down the stretch of beach
that backs up to their house; carefully back and
forth on the shoulder of the quiet road in front
of the house.
After a week, we are all proficient in driving
the golf cart. My cousins and I draw up golf cart
driver’s licenses for ourselves, complete with
our best impression of a photo. We deliver them
to Puck to notarize; he does so enthusiastically.
***
I’m nine years old, back at my grandparents’
Florida house. I’m still drawing regularly,
carrying a small sketchbook with cartoon
animals all over it wherever I go. I draw
anything, and Puck loves it. He shows me his
sketchbooks, full of meticulous drawings,
especially of Timon and Pumbaa from “The
Lion King,” his favorite movie. I am in awe. I
love them.
He calls me over to his office one day, and
hands me one of his sketchbooks, open to a
blank page.
“I want you to draw something in here,” he
says to me.
“Me? What do you want me to draw?”
“Anything you want,” he says. He promises
he’ll love it, whatever it is.
I think about what to draw for hours, and
finally settle on my at-the-time trademark: a
cartoon monkey. I carefully draw the familiar
shape, sign it, date it and deliver the sketchbook
back.
“Thank you, El. I love it,” he looks at me. There
are tears in his eyes. He gives me a big hug. “Great
job.”
***
I’m 12 years old, muddling through middle
school. Puck picks me up from school — he
arrives 30 minutes before school lets out, and sits
patiently in his car to wait for me to emerge. He
loves this routine, one that we continue until I
turn 16 and start to drive myself to school.
I come out of school and immediately spot
his big, white Envoy. It’s been a tough day for
me — my friends have turned out not to be great
friends after all.
“Hey there, Miss El. You hungry?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I guess.”
“Alright, well let me know what you feel like,”
he says.
We pull out of the parking lot, both of us quiet.
“Are you thinking about what you might
want to eat?” he asks me a few minutes later.
Immediately, I start to cry — hard. He sits next
to me, patiently. I know now how much it hurt
for him to watch me cry, but he did it without
complaint. He puts his hand on my knee — his
hand is huge compared to mine, and his nails are
shorter — he was a chronic nail biter. I hold it. He
drives another loop around the block, and then
we go for ice cream.
***
I’m 17. It’s a few days before Christmas, and
I’m in my grandparents’ house in Michigan
— purchased a few years prior so that they
could be closer to my family. Their house is less
than a mile away from my own. We’re baking
Christmas cookies, all sorts — chocolate chip,
snickerdoodle, oatmeal, pizzelles.
I start to measure out ingredients. I dip my
measuring cup into the flour.
“Wait!” Puck calls over. He hurries over to the
silverware drawer, grabs a butter knife. “Take
a big scoop,” he tells me. I take a heaping scoop
— He reaches over and evens the measurement
with the knife. “Perfect,” he proclaims. I dump
it into the bowl.
We’ve been baking all day. I’m exhausted
from the heat in their small kitchen, and from all
the measuring, mixing, timing — I go to take a
nap on the couch. Puck has assured me he’ll keep
an eye on the cookies in the oven.
I come back into the kitchen and find him in
his usual baking position: sitting on a step stool
placed on the kitchen floor, directly in front of
the oven, intently watching the cookies bake.
“I have to get them at just the right time,” he
tells me.
***
I’m 18. It’s college move-in day. I’m terrified,
but even more terrified of showing it. My
stomach is filled with dread and anxiety as we
load the car with what is going to become my
entire life at school: bedding, small appliances,
clothes.
My grandparents arrive to see me off. There’s
not enough room in the car (or my future dorm
room) for them to come along. They get out of
the car, carrying a cardboard box. It’s filled with
bottles of water — Smart Water, to be exact. It’s
my favorite, because there are little pictures of
animals on the labels. They want to make sure I
have enough water to take with me.
Puck walks up, setting the box down next to
the car.
“You ready, Miss El?”
He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I
feel the lump in my throat get bigger. We stand
together quietly for a few seconds, and then I
look up at him, and tell him the truth.
“I’m really scared. I don’t want to go.” He
squeezes my shoulder.
“I know you’ll be great.”
***
I’m 21, on another visit to Florida. We’re in my
grandparents’ new condo, a recent move from
the ranch that had gotten to be too big.
It’s a quiet morning; Puck and I are the only
ones in the house. I’m reading, quietly, and he’s
bidding on stamps online for his collection. The
house is almost silent, each of us engrossed in our
own tasks.
After a while, he leans over from his desk to
look at me, sitting in the chair next to him.
“Hey, El,” he says. “Can I ask you a favor?”
He needs me to address an envelope for him
— his hand tremor has gotten bad, and he can’t
clearly write the address. I do it eagerly, copying
down the address from another envelope.
“Oh, thanks so much. You’re my hero, El.” He
smiles at me and pats my shoulder. I smile back.
We return to the peaceful silence. We never
needed words.
by Ellie Homant, Managing Social Media Editor
PHOTO COURTESY OF ELLIE HOMANT