Spring Hare Moon
Several hours with granddaughter Ruth. She asks questions from her much despised car seat while the car hums on asphalt, these old ears not able to pick up much of the high pitched chatter. It tests my intelligence to appear to be listening. I want to, but even the good ear doesn’t allow it.
Once in a while: “Question. Grandpop, have you finished your book?” Yes, I have and its out to agents right now. “Agents.” They try to sell your book for you. “Oh. Does it have any pictures?” Nope. “I’ve gotten really good at visualizing when I’m reading. Question. (she actually says, question) How long is it?” About 100,000 words. “Is 100, 000 more than a million?” No, it takes 10 100,000’s to make a million. “Oh. Well, if I read your book ten times, I would get a million word medal.”
We went to the Colorado History Museum which has changed to visitor friendly exhibits. Good for kids, a bit disappointing for me. Ruth loves to set the pattern of the dynamite in a mining demonstration, then push the plunger. The patterns are complex and she remembers them perfectly each time.
Time with grandkids has a magical quality and I think it’s partly because the issue of mortality is so squarely and honestly on the table. I’ll die long before Ruth and we both know that. It gives these times together a depth and seriousness that rides below the surface of ice cream cones and bagels.
Her world is bicycles, books and imminent release from her car seat. Mine is love, legacy and creativity. Probably not that different in their essence.
And she wore me out. Time for a nap.