The Weekly Fare . . . August 14, 2003
Grace - Of God
I am convinced that if we're lucky we might meet two or three people in the course of life that we consider to be truly good.
I mean really, really, really good.
Folks who just drip it without trying or knowing or caring who's counting or watching or keeping score. People who are just plain old made right.
People like Grace Varner.
Generally you know such people as soon as you see them. Because they've seen you already and have been waiting for your eyes to meet theirs so that they can smile and nod and let you know how important you are. They know you need that and so they're willing to give it.
The first time I saw Grace, she was in her twenty-something year of cooking and waiting tables at the Cheat Mountain Club just north of Greenbank West Virginia. This was long before we fell in love with the place so much that we bought a share of it. Grace said hello in her sweet mountain drawl and continued about her work. But the joyful ease with which she glided across the floor let you know that she was going to do everything she could to make that meal the very best you ever had.
And as I recall it was . . .
And it still is.
Grace is now the lodge's caretaker, and she and her husband Frank, who is the second coming of Saint Francis of Assisi (the patron Saint of animals), provide everything from meals to firewood to making sure the candles are all burning just right. Like any good caretaker it's a "now you see me, now you don't" kind of approach where things tend to pop up just as you are about to need them. Radar O'Reilly of "Mash" fame has nothing on Grace.
Several trips ago I was wrapping up what had been a long frustrating afternoon of fly-fishing during which not a single fish had shown interest in the fare I was offering. I had just plopped myself down in one of the big wooden Adirondack chairs overlooking the river when Frank appeared (no doubt at Graces urging) with a spin-casting rod in hand.
"Go on," he said quietly. "Give this a try."
"Thanks," I said somewhat surprised. Was it that obvious I hadn't hooked up with the first fish?
Frank backed away slowly toward the lodge as I took the four short steps to the river.
"Phuewwww . . . " the bright yellow spinner sailed effortlessly over the water as the line released rapidly from the small silver reel. The lure "plinked" beneath the surface near a boulder about halfway to the opposite side. I slowly began to crank and had done so no more than seven times when the surface exploded before me as a 17-inch Brook Trout slammed onto the bait and then tail wagged across the water. It took less than a minute to land the beautiful fish. I held it up for Frank and Grace to see before carefully placing it back in the ice-cold mountain river. They both smiled in appreciation from the porch and then returned to the kitchen to finish preparations for that night's meal.
Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal to you, but it's the stuff of angels as far as I'm concerned.
Grace gets up at 4:30 A.M. so that the breakfasts she makes have everything from homemade biscuits and handmade waffles to fresh picked blueberries from the bushes just outside. You may think you've lived, but you really haven't until you've swirled the last bite of your blueberry pancakes through the maple syrup from just down the road in Monterey and then stabbed the fork onto an extra large piece of hickory smoked sausage that Grace gets from God only knows where. You then take the whole dripping mess before your eyes for a moment before slowly sliding it home in one delectable bite . . . If you can do so without smiling, you're either dead or well on your way.
Grace sneaks upstairs and makes your bed when your not looking.
Grace braids your daughter's hair just like hers and then wraps them up in aprons and spends three hours baking a cake that would have taken her only one.
Grace stays late, so that your guests who are caught in the snow storm will have something to eat for dinner. She then drives 18 miles home through the same storm.
Grace makes extra cookies just in case someone unexpected stops in.
Grace smiles and tells you whatever stupid request you've made (the same one that everyone else that comes to the lodge probably does) will be "just fine" and "taken care of" even though it has come at the end of a 14-hour day that is part of a string of perhaps twenty without a day off.
Grace says "please" and "thank you" and "I hope it will be O.K. if . . ."
Grace "says grace" in her own hushed whisper. She isn't particularly "religious," at least not in the "modern American" sense, but she knows her savior and is likely closer to God than you or I or the stars above.
She is there so unexpectedly - without merit . . . and with a sense of abiding joy and goodness that transcends everything else in the moment around her . . .
Grace, is well . . . Grace. The most aptly and perfectly named individual on the entire planet - and we who know her, are some of the "luckiest" of all.
Thank you Grace. You shine like the sun.
That we all could be so beautiful.