Grammy Magic
It has long been assumed that grandparents have the unique privilege to pass the lived wisdom of this world onto their grandchildren. But, as I learned from my grandchildren, the gifting goes two ways.
When I was 62 year old and my grandchildren were still young enough for unabashed bigs hugs, I moved across the country to Southern California to hopefully spend the rest of my life being a visible presence in the rest of their lives. I was not disappointed.
There was soccer on weekends and dance recitals and play performances, large blended family holiday gatherings and school break overnights, stories read at bedtime and secrets shared in quiet times followed over the years by graduations from elementary school then middle school then — where did the time go? — high school. Sprinkled in between were lessons learned the hard way and accomplishments garnered, well, also the hard way — borne of commendable passion, discipline and dedication. But, most important of all, there was magic.
The first time I felt the gentle touch of the wand was shortly after our move when my granddaughter and I took a walk to a nearby park. Grabbing my hand and sensing an eager grandparent, she lit up. “Can we play pretend?”
Play? Pretend? Oh my, I felt the immediate weight of decades of being a responsible adult. Yes, I had learned the art of “fake to make it” in order to get through a difficult day or a tense meeting but … making it up for real? My atrophied play muscles groaned with intimidation. The last thing I wanted to do was to disappoint the imagination of this precious child.
Certainly, I was responding to the higher calling of of unconditional love when I found myself on all fours pretending to be a ferocious bear in pursuit of a beautiful princess. A “pretend” so credibly incredible by 6-year old standards that we became over the weeks ahead fiercesome pirate heroines plundering the high seas of the local playground, a good witch and a bad witch hiding out in dark forest of canyon shrubs, a pair of ballerinas pirouetting through the fantasia of an urban park. All this done in the very public glare of broad daylight.
Did I care? Not a bit. We had been sprinkled with the fairy dust of delight. We were enchanted. We were oblivious. We were having a ball! And I was hooked. Our visits were exhilarated with slides and carousels and silly rhymes and outrageous stories and bubbles and giggles and forbidden sweets and the glow of sister sprites romping between the magic portals of childhood and elderhood.
My granddaughter took my hand and walked me across the threshold into a magical place between the portals. A place that I tucked away for a rainy day without an agenda. A place the Irish call, “Tir na Og” — the land of the forever young — which is always just a play date away. For that gift from my grandaughter’s wizened spirit, I will always be grateful. It was where I discovered the stories of young and old waiting to be told and decided to keep company with the magic everyday.