It was the same breakfast every morning.

One egg over medium, two strips of bacon, a piece of white toast with a thin layer of butter followed by a smear of guava jelly, a small glass of orange juice and a slightly larger one of milk.

He would eat his breakfast alone and silently read the newspaper that had been routinely fetched by the family German Shepherd, Hans, from the front yard that morning. The smell of bacon would waft throughout the entire house, which was nestled halfway down Oxford Avenue, and the warm morning sunlight shone between the bright yellow kitchen curtains and through the stained-glass lion suction cupped to the window.

Charlie had taken the hard road to get to where he was and everything he had, he earned. By the time I came to know him he had softened some, but you still never had to wonder what he was thinking.

I was the first grandchild and the only girl, which gave me a glaring advantage.

He would pick me up from school once a week only to drop me off at the salon where my grandmother was getting her hair done. The hairdresser’s name was Pinky. I would sit in one of the dryer chairs and eat a package of Lance cream cheese and chives cracker sandwiches while I waited and listened to conversation I didn’t understand.

Charlie, or Grampy as he was lovingly called, would drive from the school to the salon without saying anything until we were turning into the parking lot and then he would gruffly mutter, “Did you learn about letters today? Is Q for cute?”, referring to the blow-up letter people my kindergarten teacher had used to help us remember letter sounds. It didn’t matter that I was in second grade, he still said it. Thankful for the break in the silence, and the playful attention, I would laugh along with him.

As soon as my grandmother and I got back to the house, I would join Grampy in the backyard, playing on the swing set while he was busy doing whatever Grampys do. Mostly he would tend to the yard.

I’m pretty sure he could grow anything.

There were abundant citrus trees, towering banana plants, fragrant gardenia and rose bushes, huge stag horn ferns chained to tall pines, and a variety of palm trees, but his pride and joy were the orchids. A special structure was built in the shaded area of the backyard for them to hang. They were absolutely beautiful. Purple, pink, white, yellow, red, he cherished each one.

When the Florida nights would dip down to almost freezing he’d carry each orchid plant indoors and they would hang in the doorway between the breeze way and the dining room until it warmed up enough for them to go back outside. It seemed that there were always a couple hanging in that doorway.

Maybe they needed extra attention for some reason or maybe he wanted to enjoy them inside too. I never asked.

I never really even thought about them until they weren’t there.

I can remember spending afternoons at the Oxford house after school, playing.

Birthdays, holidays, and Gator football filled the house with people. The cousins would weave their way from the bedroom where the toys and books were kept, through the breezeway, and out into the backyard to run and play.

Weekly dinners with my dad and grandparents where the entrees in rotation were steak, spaghetti, meatloaf, and rotisserie chicken, ended with us all gathered on the velvety navy-blue couch watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy before heading home. If it was a steak night my grandmother would make me a hotdog because steak is for adults.

It was at this house that I learned how to do a cartwheel, ride a bike, walk on stilts, write in cursive, look away during certain parts of Days of Our Lives, and when I turned sixteen, my first car was waiting for me on that driveway.

All the while, the orchids were there. Stable, yet so delicate. It seems odd to think of such a hard man giving such care to something so tender.

The summer after I turned eighteen the orchids reached the end of their lives. There was no longer anyone to gently tend to them and, one by one, they disappeared.

Now, as an adult, I see how much care and attention we must give things, even the ones that seem stable. Just because it is always there doesn’t mean it isn’t delicate. The orchids taught me that. Thank you, Charlie.