Hands Across Time

This inspiring first-hand account from Editorial Waterboard member and Senior Subprime IslamoColonicLavage™ Correspondent Michael Edward Rashoff comes at a particularly opportune moment when our thoughts turn away from the daily grind of imminent nuclear war in Pakistan, three-and-a-half-buck gas, erectile dysfunction, the writer's strike, prostate enlargement, adult diaper rash and cancer of the nose...to soothing memories from another time when hope sprang internal and a helping hand was always there with the small assist that, when it counted, made all the difference.

My grandmother died back in ’72 but during the holiday season when her birthday comes around again, I always go back in time and remember the singular attachment between us and the rare commonality of heart we shared in that unique link across the generations.

During the long walks we used to take to the store on Crawford Road, we would together parse the full panoply of human experience stretching back to the dawn of time.

And, as insignificant as they may seem now, those quarters she gave me for pulling weeds or washing the sidewalk came in awfully handy to a young boy just starting out in the world.

The list of those small but endlessly resonating moments shared between the two of us goes on and on.

But the one I remember most was a single piece of grandmotherly advice which the old lady passed down to me when I’d just turned 13.

We were sitting on a bench in the park on a beautiful spring day after spending a morning canvassing the neighborhood for soda bottles for me to turn in at the store for the deposit money.

“One day, Sonny,” Grandma said, “you will meet a beautiful woman, fall in love, marry and start your own family.”

“Yes, Grandma.”

"And always remember this one thing," she said. "Be sure you marry a woman with small hands."

"How come, Grandma?"

“Because it makes your dick look so much bigger.”