Living Your Purposefully — Episode #1

The People Who Lived in The Room Beneath the Stairs

Charity begins at home … Part 1

Bounty always receives part of its value from the manner in which it is bestowed. — Samuel Johnson.

I was tutored in life by she who I consider to be the greatest woman who graced my life.

My grandmother!

We called her ‘mommy’.

My sister and I were raised by her when our mother left for work after our parents divorced.

She practiced what she preached.

She was charitable, kind, and a woman so multifaceted she remains a mystery to this day. Her many lessons reverberate in halls of my life each and every day!

For all of the years, I spent in her care, 14 years, there was always someone living with us. Some of the stays were short, others lasted a while.

One thing was certain, there would always be someone staying there.

This teeny series is dedicated to the people who passed through my life via my grandmother and the lessons they taught.

Lessons on being open-minded and sharing even the little that you had.

Occupant #1

When I was about 12 years old, my grandmother’s brother came to live with us.

My grandmother was one of thirteen children. She was the third girl and the third youngest child.

I think growing up in such a large family either makes us become giving human beings or selfish ones.

My grandmother became a giver.

Keep in mind that my grandmother’s brother was in his sixties when he came to live beneath the stairs.

At the time my great uncle became a resident, he had been married, raised his family, and along the way succumbed to a love of the spirits.

As a matter of fact, the reason for the demise of his marriage was his love of alcohol.

Back in his heyday, he worked a good job and made a good life. Then as he spiraled under the weight of the bad spirits, his family abandoned ship and he became destitute.

None of the other siblings wanted him in their homes. His children were off living their own lives.

Of course, he came to live with my grandma, his sister in what we will refer to as the room beneath the stairs. The room beneath the stairs is a metaphor for all the lives that passed through my grandma’s home and the impact they left behind.

This was a downstairs room that housed bags of unprocessed rice back when my grandpa was alive and farming.

Now it has been cleaned and fixed up to house future ‘residents’.

Seeking human kindness

Due to chronic alcoholism, he had many health issues. Most days he stayed in bed. His walk was shaky, and he was always at risk of falls.

On other days it seemed he could bear the call of the spirits no longer and though he swayed this way and that, he would disappear with the stealth of a young cheetah.

My grandmother or one of us would venture downstairs for any number of reasons to find the occupant missing.

“Mommy”, we would report, “Uncle El is missing”!

My poor grandma would walk the house repeatedly peering out the windows.

Those were not the days of phones and unless you found a young child to go seek the defector, you had to wait for their voluntary reappearance.

Later, he would stagger his way back to base or he would be escorted by a kind-hearted friend, family, or neighbor.

When Uncle El was unable to imbibe of the spirits, he would swallow some hot pepper sauce from a shot glass.

I guess he needed the burn.

He would stay put for a while, then back out again for a repeat.

My brother significantly younger than I was also skilled at escaping off to play. Uncle El kept an eye out and would alert us that he was attempting to escape.

Time passes

Some years passed and one day the occupant beneath the stairs took to his bed.

My grandmother, who had always been his sole caretaker, now began giving him bed baths and finally progressed to having to feed him like a child.

My sister, three years younger and the more adventurous of us, would peek through a small hole to see the happenings in the room below. I would wait with bated breath for a full report as I never developed the gumption to actually peek myself.

Soon he stopped eating anything and was only able to tolerate a few spoons of water. We instinctively understood that Uncle El was “on his way out”.

One sunny day my sister and I were playing in the yard while my grandmother pottered about the kitchen garden.

The room beneath the stairs was fitted with windows on opposite sides.

The windows were open allowing the warm sunshine and fresh air to ventilate the confines of the room below.

For reasons unknown to me I decided to look in on Uncle El as I knew he was ill.

Of course, Uncle El was laying there and as I watched, he made a sound reminiscent of a chicken about to cluck, but with a much lower tone. It sounded somewhat like a gurgling in his throat.

Somehow, I understood that he had just taken his final breath and with an eerie calmness, I called out to my grandma. “Mommy, I think Uncle El has just died”. I announced his demise without preamble.

My grandmother hurried over to the room and confirmed my suspicions.

Uncle El was indeed gone.

What I learned

It is said that charity begins at home, but it should not end there.

My grandmother personified that saying.

She lived her life teaching us to share and be mindful of everyone. All who came by would partake of whatever we had.

Anyone who needed a hand just had to stretch out theirs. Numerous family and friends transitioned through their lives using her home as a respite.

Grandma never expected anything in return and really never received it.

Her lessons did not go unnoticed by her grandchildren who carry on her wonderful tradition of — simply giving.

The first occupant of the room beneath the stairs left a vacancy that would soon be filled…

Pene Hodge is a mom, a nurse, and a writer. She writes because she must. She loves people and is committed to sharing and gleaning knowledge for the betterment of all.