A phone call. A pat on the head. Simple acts of love.

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

It was a pat on the head from my grandmother. That was the best she could do. A half smile. And, for a split second, something soft in her eyes. That’s how I knew she loved me.

She’d give me a dollar sometimes, for Easter, for my birthday, furled like a pixie stick. A new dollar that she got from the bank, not the butcher. She’d place it in my hand, her fingers touching mine. And again, for a split second, that look.

Love can be silent. That’s what I learned from my grandmother. It doesn’t have to ride in on horseback. It doesn’t need a parade. It can be a look. A gesture.

I think of this today, not because of Valentine’s Day with its once-a-year excess and extravagance, but because a friend showed me a newsletter he writes for his 98-year-old mother, a letter he e-mails every morning to her and his siblings and tothe people who care for and about her. “Fresh News” he’s named it.

It is such a simple thing. But it’s genius, too, because it saves his mother from having to ask every day, “When is Steve home?” “Who’s coming this morning?” It saves her from feeling forgetful. And old.

This is what the newsletter looks like:

FRESH NEWS

Monday, February 3rd

Schedule:

8 a.m. — Miriam

12 noon — Trina

1 p.m. — Allison (home health)

5 p.m. — Steve home

Weather: Clammy morning — Cool afternoon (My friend lives in New Orleans, not New England!)

Thought of the day: Success is ultimately about spending your life happily in your own way. (He says this is the hardest part of the newsletter, choosing the perfect inspirational quote.)

Then there’s a list of phone numbers his mother might need.

It’s not an overpriced Hallmark Valentine’s Day card professing his love. This simple newsletter is, instead, an act of love.

“I didn’t want to go out tonight and leave my mother alone again.”

So says another younger friend who loves the night life, who enjoys being out and about. But she stays home on this Friday night and sits with her mother and watches “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune” with the sound up loud, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt in the middle of winter (this friend lives in Boston) because the heat is bumped up, too. Staying home and keeping her mother company? This is also an act of love.

Years ago, on the 20th anniversary of our first date, my husband, knowing I would be at Nauset Beach that day with our children, arranged for a small plane to fly low trailing a banner that declared, “I love you 20X more than I did before.”

We almost weren’t there, at the beach, at the appointed time because of a trip to the emergency room. (My son sliced his foot.) But my friend Caryn, who was in on the plan, hurried things along and we arrived just in time to see a crowd on the beach standing and looking up. We looked up too, and there it was, a public declaration of his love.

This was and remains the most romantic thing my husband has ever done.

But it was a quieter act of love that floats to the top of my memory.

After my aunt died, an aunt who was like a sister, I would get through the days doing all I had to do, but then sit in the corner of the couch at night. Some nights I would cry. But mostly I just sat, numb and disbelieving. It was winter. It was dark. The world felt bleak.

One night, my husband came home, saw me in the corner and said, “What can I do?” Then he disappeared. A while later he returned with take-out from Boston Chicken. It was a full dinner: roast chicken, cornbread, mashed potatoes, stuffing, rolls. I think there was even cranberry sauce. I love roast chicken, cornbread, mashed potatoes, stuffing, rolls, and cranberry sauce. He bought two full meals. And they were both for me.

Food may not be love, but it felt like love that night. Looking back, I still feel that love.

My friend Chuck calls his father every day. No matter where he is. No matter where his father is. I wish I had called my father every day. He used to put stars on his calendar on the days I called. I had the power to make his day every day. And I didn’t.

Little things really are the big things. A phone call. A pat on the head. Here’s your schedule, Mother. Words of encouragement. Cornbread. Company on a Friday night.

Beverly Beckham’s column appears every two weeks. She can be reached at bev@beverlybeckham.com.