Grandma Days

Grandma Days

From Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul

Grandma Days

There is nothing more properly the language of the heart than a wish.

Robert South

I was barely awake when the phone rang at 7:20 A.M.

“Hello?” I mumbled groggily, trying to clear the fog from my sleepy brain.

A little voice whispered, “Hi, Grandma!”

Suddenly I was wide awake. “Hi, Logan.” I was surprised and delighted with the wake-up call because I knew his parents cautioned him not to call me too early in the morning. “How are you today?”

“Grandma,” he continued to whisper, “Mom’s still sleeping and Daddy went to get a newspaper, so I sneaked on the telephone.”

I chuckled at the thought of this four-year-old waiting for an opportune moment to phone his grandma, knowing he can call me any time, day or night. There are no restrictions on our relationship, certainly not with something as mundane as time.

“Is today a Grandma Day?” he asked hopefully. Grandma Days are the highlights of his young life.

“Yes, it is. Are you ready to come over?”

He assured me he was, and I was there at 8:30 A.M. sharp to pick him up.

“What would you like to do today?” I asked as we drove the few blocks to my home.

“Let’s go to Goose Lake, Grandma.” He giggled and said, “That sounds funny. Goose Lake Grandma!” He laughed as though he had made a huge joke and started chanting, “Goose Lake Grandma! Goose Lake Grandma!”

I got his tricycle out of the garage and we began the one-mile trek to Goose Lake, which is actually a man made lake in a residential area. Its real name is Foxwarren Lake, but to Logan it is Goose Lake because of the numerous Canada geese that have made it their home.

As he pedaled down the sidewalk, he practiced reading street numbers on the houses we passed. Then he counted by twos, fives and tens, and then backward from 100. He had an obsession with numbers. The bigger the number, the more he liked it.

“See that tree?” He pointed to an elm tree. “It’s going to turn into an apple tree soon. The apples might have little worms in them.”

I smiled at the idea of an elm tree bearing apples.

“Look, Grandma, a zillion dandelions!” We stopped to stare at a field, covered in yellow and white softness. “Dandelions are weeds,” he stated.

“Yes, they are,” I agreed.

“But I still like them.”

“I know you do,” I answered. He picked a dandelion that had gone to seed, closed his eyes and blew the white puffy tendrils away.

“I made a wish. Do you want to know what I wished?”

“If you tell me, it won’t come true,” I said.

“But I want you to know,” he insisted.

“Well, if you whisper it in my ear, then it should be okay.” I bent down, and he cupped my ear with his hand and whispered his wish.

He stopped to pick up a feather, examined it closely, then put it into his bicycle basket. An unusual stone followed the feather, adding to his treasures from nature.

At Goose Lake we played in the park and watched the geese, which observed us, hoping for a handout. “Look at all the ducklings,” remarked Logan, watching the fuzzy yellow babies waddle after their very protective parents.

“They’re called goslings,” I corrected. “Baby ducks are ducklings, and baby geese are goslings.”

“Well then, they should be called gooselings! Look, there’s Mother Goose!”

Disappointed that we didn’t have food to offer them, Mother Goose gave a warning hiss and shuffled off with her little ones in tow, plunging into the lake. I guess they couldn’t read the sign that stated “No Swimming”.

On the way back home, Logan recited the house numbers on the other side of the street. He tried to whistle and when a faint sound came out, he announced gleefully, “I have magic lips!”

“Hold my hand, Grandma,” he said, so I did. He pedaled his tricycle, steering with the other hand. I recalled what his mother said to him as we left that morning. “Have a good day with Grandma,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

“I always do,” Logan said. He paused, then continued, “And I always will!”

As he pedaled along, I squeezed his chubby hand in mine, remembering his dandelion wish . . . that every day be a Grandma Day, and “a grillion days more.”

I knew I’d hold his hand for a while but his heart forever.

Maria Harden

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