Knowing Everything

“How come you know everything, Gramps?”  Out of the blue, the question sprang from the mouth of a sincere, pixie-faced six-year-old.

“Everything!  What makes you think I know everything?”  The answer, trying to buy time, came from a surprised old man.

“Well, you just do.  You know, like, everything in the world!”  Maddy’s sincerity was achingly precious.

“Gee, I’m not sure I know everything, little one.  Not everything in the world, anyway.”  Jacob was still stalling, searching for an answer that might suffice.

“You sure know everything I ask you, that’s all I know.”  And with that, the conversation ended as she walked away, apparently satisfied.

Jacob put down the book he’d been reading, remembering how he’d felt that same way when he’d endlessly peppered his own grandfather with questions—a long, long time ago, to be sure.

I was convinced Granddad knew everything there was to know.

Jacob could no longer recall his grandfather’s answers, of course, mostly because he’d long since forgotten the questions he was always asking.  What remained with him, though, was the impression he’d had at the time—the certainty that Granddad could come up with the answers to anything he might ask about.

He’d known how to get from his house to Jacob’s, for example, and he could always find his way home.  Jacob had marveled at that.  He’d known how to meet people, what to say, when to laugh, and Jacob had admired that, too.  Granddad had known, not only the tunes to the hymns they’d sung in church, but the words, as well—to all the verses, without looking at the hymnal! 

Guess it’s no wonder I still love those hymns!

And Granddad had definitely known how to fish!  He could catch them better than anyone, take them off the hook, clean them, and cook them.  He’d known how to run the old motorboat, row the skiff, and paddle the canoe.  And he’d taught Jacob how.

He’d known how to wind and adjust the big grandfather clock that stood in the hallway, and the mantel clock above the fireplace.  Both those clocks resided now in Jacob’s home, and their hourly chimes and gongs were an everlasting source of comfort to him.

In fact, no matter what the subject might have been, Jacob had been convinced old Granddad had known how to do it.  

Far as I was concerned, he did know everything!

But, as Jacob remembered only too well, that had been a very long time ago.  By the time he’d reached his teens, he remembered feeling quite differently about such things.  By then, it seemed his grandfather had forgotten everything he used to know.

He was no longer any good at throwing the baseball back and forth, and he wouldn’t go skating anymore.  He hadn’t liked the clothes Jacob wore, the music he listened to, some of the friends he chummed with.  He’d often complained that Jacob’s parents were too permissive, frustrated that they didn’t exercise more control over their son’s comings and goings.

Nor did he come to the house as often as he once did, but he’d complain that Jacob never came to see him.  That part, Jacob confessed to himself, had been true; during those years, he had reduced his grandfather to an occasional presence in his life, tolerated more than cherished, ignored more than honoured.

Either he didn’t have all the answers anymore, or I stopped asking the questions.

Fortunately, circumstances had eventually changed.  In less time than it takes to tell, Jacob had become a grown man, had married, had started a family.  Busy with all the workaday stuff that occupied him back then, and confronted by challenges he had never encountered, he’d discovered he had all manner of questions still to be answered.

So, Granddad and Jacob had begun to talk again, as friends, and Jacob had discovered he could still enjoy and learn from the old man’s answers to his questions.  Of course, he no longer believed Granddad knew everything, nor did he blindly accept everything he said. 

But he knew me, he loved me, and he knew I loved him.  And that was enough.

Sitting in his comfortable armchair now, reflecting on Mandy’s comment, Jacob had to smile wryly at the notion that he knows everything—at least according to her.  He was happy, naturally, that she thought so, but he knew better. 

I hope she’ll think that way for a long time yet, though.

Inevitably, as Jacob well knew, the truth would reveal itself to her, but he hoped she’d continue to love him for who he was, not for what he knew—or didn’t know.

It means the best is yet to come.  Like it did for me and Granddad.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}