The Sandbox of Eden

The grown-ups made jokes when the birthday present that excited Timmy the most  turned out to be bags of sand.  We didn't care though, let them poke their fun; he owned his treasure.  Since the temperature had gotten above freezing outside,words of desperation and desire for the sand tumbled out of his mouth constantly.  The little turtle sandbox where he spent most of his afternoon hours never had enough sand to create everything his mind inspired.  As soon as a castle became a sand masterpiece, the image of a three-tiered space ship taunted his brain.  He hated having to destroy one creation to build the next.  Often, I'd watch him drift off to sleep knowing his thoughts were of the endless sand cities he could create, if only he had more sand.  Some things in life, grandpas just have to do.  If the boy wanted dirt, this grandpa would give him a truckload.

Finally, his seventh birthday arrived, and while aunts and uncles appeared with brightly colored packages filled with action figures and the latest movies, I loaded the back of the pick-up with bags of sand and shallow empty boxes.  At the sight of the bed of the truck, Timmy's eyes shone  with sand images never before considered.  I could tell his young mind was sputtering in fast forward by the way he danced from foot to foot.  The urge to abandon the party and create his sand world gripped his soul in anticipation.  A pat on the shoulder from my wrinkled, rough hand and a reassuring grin seemed to grant him the temporary patinece the occasion required. 

His emerald eyes looked up at me with thanks that comes from the heart not from good manners.  "Grandpa, you're my hero."

The words spoken didn't just reflect gratitude for the sand, but because I understood.  My daughter often tells me I've softened in my old age.  At that moment I agreed as I swallowed the lump that threatened to bring tears to these manly eyes as I replied, "That's funny, Timmy.  I thought you were my hero."

"Oh Grandpa, I'm just a kid."  He giggled with an innocence that both filled my heart and made it ache.

Time crawled by as we waited for the adults to finish reminiscing about their childhood gatherings.  When at last the final grownup commented on how tall he was getting, and the screen door shut, both Timmy and I rushed to carry the boxes and sand to the beckoning backyard. 

Timmy and his mother had always lived with me.  Until this year at school, he assumed everyone lived with their grandfather.  But in first grade you learn a lot.  He learned his best friend, Michael, lived with a mom, dad, and six brothers and sisters.  Sheila, the girl who always wore pink shoes, lived only with her dad.  Robert, the boy with a Mohawk, lived with his mom and aunt.  One night after prayers he told me he felt bad for them all, for in his eyes, he definitely had the best arrangement.  I believed so too.

The backyard was an acre of land.  I sectioned off half an acre for Timmy's play area, and the other half was for my prized vegatable garden.  A simple wire separated the two Edens, but nothing could create a barrier between grandfather and grandson.  Hours were spent, each on our own land, sometimes talking about life's mysteries, other times in silence just content to be near one another.

Timmy strategically arranged the boxes on his portion of the acre, and I distributed the sand in them.  The turtle sandbox seemed to look on with amazement.  The endless possibilities danced through Timmy's imagination at the thought of the new sand slipping through his fingers.  He would do this gift justice.  A smile passed between us, the old and the young, as we took in the new playground pleading for Timmy's endless creativity and energy.

The sun was beginning to set, usually a sign to come in for the evening.  But to make a boy wait another night for his dreams to come true was an unimaginable cruelty that neither I nor Timmy’s mother could impart.  We agreed to a reprieve from the usual nightly schedule, allowing Timmy extended time to play while Mother cleaned up the party mess. The back porch light was turned on as I sat on the steps watching Timmy plot his first move.  I envied the innocence of my only grandson’s imagination.  The recollection of my youth came pouring back to me. How many hours had I spent outside creating something out of nothing? I smiled at the realization even now I had myown “sandbox."  My knees ached with the hours I spent in my garden, escaping from reality.  I didn’t grow the vegetables because we needed the money or food; I kept a garden because every man needs a place.  A place to reflect, to have peace, to let your thoughts drift in the aimless ways the brain often wants to take them — a place to have his sandbox.

As if reading my thoughts, Timmy piped up, “I could really use some help here, Grandpa.  It’s much too dark to work in the garden.  Do you think you could play on my land this one time?”

Without hesitation, I practically leapt off the stoop, knees creaking and joints popping.  “Just tell me what to do.  I’m not much of a sand expert these days.”

“Do whatever your mind tells you.  Mine has been whispering about space lately,” Timmy replied with innocent excitement as he took my hand and led me to the first box.  His smooth, soft hand fit perfectly in my rough, calloused one. 

“Well then, we’d best listen to your mind.  Spaceships and rockets it is.”  I chuckled at the thought and my own growing interest.

As we settled by the first box of sand with our required equipment of cups, water, and small shovels, an electricity seemed to tingle through the air.  Timmy and I shared a smile as we both dipped our hands into the untouched sand.  When our bare skin touched the sand, something strange began to happen.  The sand began to swirl on our palms as if it were a miniature tornado. Frightened, we dropped the sand and scooted back.  Without a word between us, we slowly repeated the action.  Gingerly, in unison, we immersed their fingers back into the sand.  Again, it began to stir, to come alive. 

Perhaps if either of us had made this discovery alone, it would have scared us to the point of retreating into the safety of the house.  But the fact that we were together, hero to hero,  provided not only bravery, but confirmation that what was happening was real.  Somehow silence seemed appropriate; we whispered not a word,  but our eyes spoke volumes. 

They began to build. 

Going to work settled the sand.  Before long, the box had a crude rocket ship, a planet with four uneven moons, and a barrage of space stations.  Timmy stood wiping excess sand from his jeans.  He was about to break the code of silence and tell Grandfather he was going in the house to get some army guys, so they could play in the space land.  Before he could breathe a word, the sand began to move again.  This time it seemed to grow with each swirl, and as it rotated colors began flashing.  Grandfather reached for Timmy, pulling him roughly to him.  Together, as one, they could only stand and watch as their sand world spun out of control.  There was no sound, yet the magnitude of the speed and size of this new developing world filled all their senses.  Just inches in front of them sand was out of control, but they felt not the slightest breeze.  The colors seemed to pop in and out like exploding Easter eggs.  Grasping each other, each trying to be the protector, they were filled with awe.

Then everything went pitch black.  They squeezed each other in the blindness.  No porch light, no moon, no shadows.  Just black nothingness.  As the shock began to register in their brains, the world turned on the lights again.  But this time it wasn’t the soothing light of dusk; it was as if God were shining a spotlight on them.  Everything was overly bright.  As their eyes adjusted, they realized with disbelief that their world had not adjusted so well.  Shielding their eyes, they stared unbelievably into the sky at four disproportionate, yellow moons. 

Slowly, they turned to look around them.  Directly behind them was the most magnificent rocket ship either had seen or dreamed of.  It was so tall they could not see the top.  It was a metallic color that was neither silver nor gold, but somewhere in between.  The color reminded them both of heat, though it was not reddish in tint.  There were smaller rockets and what must be laser guns attached in strategic places.  The rocket ship emitted power and excellence.  It commanded respect and attention.

“Grandfather, please, we have to go in it,” Timmy’s pleas broke the silence.

Holding his grandson’s hand, Grandfather realized ironically what scared him most right now was that he was not afraid.  He couldn’t explain what was happening, but he didn’t want to miss out on this adventure.  The fear that this might impair his judgement tickled the back of his brain as he answered Timmy, “Of course, we must explore the ship.”

Each step was in unison as they approached the porthole.  It opened automatically.  Crossing the threshold they entered a technological paradise.  Computers and gadgets filled every space.  While their attention was drawn to these never-before-seen instruments, they began tentatively exploring.  Their hearts raced with anticipation of what they had found and what was yet to be discovered.

“It sure is warm in here,” Grandfather said, more to say something than because the temperature was uncomfortable.

Within seconds a voice responded, “Air conditioning activated.”

Both were stunned, but laughed at the other’s surprised response.  Inexplicably, they didn’t sense danger as long as they were together.

Deciding to test this out, Timmy said loudly, “I sure am thirsty, Grandfather!”

A steel cabinet door to their left opened and a tray of cold beverages smoothly pushed out.  They both grabbed a drink while grinning at the discovery of a rocket ship that obeys commands.

“It’s the new millennium’s genie in a bottle, I guess,” Grandfather said as he drank the cool liquid.

They wandered from room to room in the rocket.  They discovered sleeping chambers, dining areas, gaming rooms, and many rooms they didn’t know what were.  Feeling quite comfortable and brazen, Timmy said with confidence, “Rocket, direct us to the cockpit.”

At his instructions the floor began to move as a sliding escalator.  They were transported through rooms and up many stories before a door opened into the cockpit.  What appeared before them was nothing like they expected.  Gone were the intricate gadgets and many computer screens.  This room was simple and plain.  There were two large captain chairs, a screen in front of each, a stick with which to guide the ship, and three buttons between the chairs. 

They sank into the oversized chairs as they looked out the view of the window.  They could see the planet covered with the space stations they had created.  There were so many space stations they had to laugh. 

Grandfather just shrugged.  “It was all I knew how to build.”

At the sound of his voice, his computer screen lit up.  The picture on it was his prized garden.  Timmy cleared his throat making his screen come to life with an image of his turtle sandbox.  Both stared at the places that brought them so much joy and solace.  They each put a hand on the steering stick.

“Grand, just one quick spin.  Then I want to go home.”

“You bet, buddy.  Lead the way.”

Timmy pushed the top button and the rocket roared to life.  There was no countdown, no fasten your seatbelt warning; it just started up like it had been waiting for this moment for an eternity. 

“I’m guessing the middle button is forward then,” said Grandfather.

Together they pushed it with excitement and hesitation.  The rocket lurched upward and forward.  In seconds it had smoothed out, giving the effect of a ship riding the gentle waves of space.  The pilots watched as they sailed past moon after moon.  They gasped in amazement at the brilliance of stars.  Their eyes stared mesmerized as they passed other ships in space. 

After what felt like hours of exploration, Timmy began to yawn and his eyelids felt heavy.  He was torn between the familiarity of his own home and what he feared was a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.  Grandfather sensed his inner struggle, and made the choice easy for him.  With a show of certainty to comfort the boy who brought him daily joy, he pushed the bottom button.

“Take us home, Rocket,” he commanded in a tone of confidence all trained astronauts’ possess.

The ship dipped and circled.  It spun vertically at a rate of speed so great that the two captains gripped their chairs with white knuckles and could no longer focus on the outside world.  Instead, both stared at their computer screens, concentrating on a garden and a sandbox.  The discovery of a new world was still appealing, but both passengers longed to be assured they could be returned home.  The rocket swooped in a mighty figure eight, reversed rotation, and began to sputter.  The boy and man focused solely on the computer monitor willing themselves to be home, and with an abrupt thump they found before them a box of sand with an amateur built space world, and beneath them the fresh green grass of Earth.

Without warning, Timmy shot up and raced to the house to get his mother before Grandfather could say anything.  He wanted to show her this magical gift that had been given him.  She followed tiredly after him already giving warnings that bed time was near.  She listened, as mothers often do, with love but not comprehension of the magnitude of a child’s creation.  The box of sand art was all she saw.  Dutifully, she commented on the talent it took to create it.

“No, Mom.  You don’t understand!  We have to all touch the sand together for it to become alive,” Timmy explained eagerly.

Thinking this was some sort of ritual the two had concocted, she played along in hopes of getting to bed as soon as possible.  The three slowly touched the sand together looking from one another to the box.  Nothing happened.  The sand felt just like sand.

She kissed Timmy’s head, telling him to put the toys away and come inside.  She whispered in her father’s ear gratitude for playing along with her son’s active imagination.  Her thoughts moved on to ironing the clothes for the next day as she made her way back into the house.

“It was real, Timmy,” Grandfather confirmed without having to be asked.

A tear slid down Timmy’s cheek.  “But it’s gone now.”

There was no response, for there could be no answer for the unexplainable.  Each began silently picking up the cups and shovels, but as their hands touched the sand at the same time there was the slightest swirl.  They glanced at each other with renewed anticipation for they knew they held the power.

Carrying the toys into the house, Grandfather said, “I think somewhere in between youth and old age you lose the ability to appreciate imagination.  I think that’s why it works for us, Timmy.  Somehow the imagination creates the energy. . . . .  I don’t know.  But it sure was fun.”

“Grand, we are building aliens tomorrow!” Timmy said with a gleam in his eye.

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