A Different Age
Cervera, a widow who has lived on disability for 20 years, said her family has been through difficult times recently. Last year her 47-year-old son Rudy was killed in a motorcycle accident, leaving four teenage children.
“I’d give it all up to have my son here again,” she said and began to cry. Her oldest grandson, Rudy Jr., hugged her and the whole family wiped away tears.
“My grandkids are all going to be taken care of, and my (three) daughters,” she said. “I’m just so happy. I’m going to buy me a pair of Reeboks.”
She also has two adopted sons, ages 5 and 9, who have developmental disabilities.
Well good on her. I wonder if the expression of this kind of appreciation, generosity and gratitude is fading. Easy to think so the way the news waves are filled with pontificating washed up hippies and other Occupied-With-Self’ers.
I’ve bought lotto tickets before, although not since my first wife passed. Similar to Cervera, never particularly thought I’d win, since I understood the math and the odds of winning. But it was a cheep way to buy a little hope, a small token for speculating about the possibility of having a few of the money-based burdens fall away. Although the health burdens remained substantial, the cost vs. value ratio was pretty good. The let down of not winning wasn’t so bad, either. After all, I knew the odds and I got what I paid for – a little hope for a little while. And many times, that was just enough or all that was needed to get through the day.