Page 3 of Griffen the Mountain Man
People clap as a red basket filled with Italian subs and homemade potato salad is won by Mr. Kaye. He shuffles as fast as he can with a cane to the front of the room to claim his prize, then the center’s activity manager grabs another basket to auction.
Terrance reads from the piece of paper tucked in the basket. “We’ve got a Caesar salad, vanilla cake pops, and…”
Sighing, my gaze roams around the packed room. I hadn't planned on lingering for so long, since after Gramps wins Greta's basket, they'll immediately go enjoy the lunch she packed for him, and they don't need a third wheel on their date
But Gramps insisted I stay, and I couldn't tell the old manno, especially when our time sharing these kinds of events is limited.
Sure, I'm still going to see my grandpa regularly after he moves in with Greta, but it won't be the same. Not like when I drive him to the senior center and around town on errands. Not when the retirement community has its own mode of transportation for residents.
“Next up, we have this pretty blue and white gingham basket filled with bacon ranch pasta salad, salami pinwheels, and lemon crinkle cookies. Mmm, this is a good one, folks,” Terrance calls out.
Ironically, those are some ofmyfavorite picnic foods all in one basket as if it were made just for me.
“That one is Greta's,” Gramps leans over to whisper.
Ah, that makes more sense.
Gramps and I share similar tastes, although he usually prefers iced oatmeal cookies over lemon.
“Let's start the bidding at $10.”
I expect Grandpa's hand to go up immediately, but it remains in his lap. His gnarled knuckles flex, stretching the age-spotted skin.
“I thought you said that was Greta's basket.”
“It is, but—” Gramps rubs his arm “—I’m feeling a little weak today. Do you mind bidding for me?”
A higher bid price is called out, and I raise my hand, concern etching my brow.
“Are you sure you're okay? If you’re too weak to raise your arm, maybe we should see the doctor.” Already, my phone is in hand, prepared to text my siblings to let them know I’m taking Gramps to the local urgent care.
“No, no… It’s not serious enough for that.” He bumps his knee against mine to halt my frantic typing. “I'll be fine. Just make sure you get my Greta's basket.”
“Do I hear $50?”
I lift my hand again, torn between being safe and trusting Gramps’s assessment. “If you start to feel worse, let me know. Greta will understand if you can’t do the picnic today.”
His chin dips in assent, urgency beaming from his eyes. “Alright, alright. Just don’t let Geyser win.”
Shaking my head at his stubbornness, my hand goes up again as a bidding war begins between me and Mr. Geyser. The old coot has been forcing higher bids all afternoon, though his aim isn’t to claim a basket, he wants to earn as much money for the center as possible.
The proceeds from the auction will go toward a new shuffleboard for the senior center, and it's no secret how badly he wants one. Everyone has heard his tales of being a shuffleboard champion.
“$100 for this lovely basket. Do I hear $105? Going once…” Terrance looks around. “Going twice… Sold to Mr. Griffen Caldwell. Congratulations!”
The crowd cheers, and I sink lower in my seat, abhorring being the center of attention.
When the last basket is auctioned off, those who didn’t win a basket head to the large cafeteria where a local church is providing a consolation lunch. Winners are asked to pay their bids to a woman seated up front.
Gramps hops to his feet with more energy than I would expect from a man purportedly too weak to bid on his own girlfriend’s picnic basket. “Go find out where Greta's going to be, would ya? Let her know I'm going to be a little late.”
“You are?” I ask, stretching my arms overhead. Sitting for an hour in a tiny metal chair not meant to hold someone my size has all my muscles cramping.
“Gotta stop by the can.” Gramps pats his stomach before gesturing towards the bathroom.
I’d rather not dwell on why he thinks he's going to be in there for so long that he can't meet Greta in a timely manner, so I head to the lady collecting everyone’s money for the baskets. Forking over a hundred dollars before she tells me where to meet Greta, who’s setting up the picnic beside an oak tree outside.
Except when I near the spot, it's not an older woman with pink hair waiting for me. It's a much younger,and curvier, one—Heidi, the senior center's newest volunteer.
