Having just pulled in the Deerfield driveway, Carrie and I debated over which side to park on. Stace and Jace, we figured, would pull up shortly. (Our dialogue was shorter but no less trivial that colloquies I so relish with my brother).
SUDDENLY though, the garage door lifted and, idling on pavement we watched a sprite-like figure emerge from the shadows.
“Lucy!” I shouted, through the driver’s side window, “It’s your Pappy!”
Quizzical look on her face, stepping slowly, she peered out through sunlight.
“Pappy!”
— And then, in a jaunt made for cinema…somewhat of a cross between Shirley Temple bounding toward Bill Robinson and Yogi Berra leaping into the grasp of Don Larsen after the perfect game— Lucy Hannah Bohrer sprung right to my arms.
It was 6pm Friday, Chicago time. Game. Set. Match.
Funny thing how things work. I’d been stranded last January — winter blizzards and all. Grounded in the Windy City, with no way out. Frustrating as it was though, it meant quality time with Lucy. Hours of Mickey and Pluto and Dora and….guess what? I savored those moments.
Moments.
What IS life if not steadfast paddling interrupted by … moments?
When she was no more, say, than Lucy’s age, Stacy hid in the cage housing Rocky. No sheltie, however, was our daughter, and what we now recall as hours of her carted up like a dog were probably just minutes…or moments.
We had time before the Bohrers came home and Yes, we embraced it. Sprawled on the floor, building with Legos, three toddlers were we. Luce made plastic ice cream cones and I slurped mine loudly. Very loudly. Jerry Lewis loudly. “Isn’t Pappy funny?” Carr asked.
Oh, I got the easy laugh of course. (I’m so good with two-year olds). But even that ran its course. I mean: how long do you really think I can lick fake ice cream, grimace, feign dripping, and still keep a little girl’s attention?
“Look, it’s Minnie!”, cried Carrie, pulling the coloring book from her bag. And Lucy devoured it. (More than the pictures, in fact—the Jewish leprechaun readily identifying the alphabet’s letters. Impressed with the “Q” was I as we bought ten more minutes).
It was that kind of weekend: nothing exciting but everything memorable.
So we dined on a rooftop near railroad tracks…and…and YES I know this sounds trivial…but o’er the roar of the trains —from across the patio — the kid sighted a girl from her school. Unimportant, of course—but to a grandpa: worth noting.
I wasn’t a father — back in the ‘80’s — carrying pics of his kids. Not my thing. Not that I wasn’t proud of course. I just figured EVERYONE has kids and EVERYONE thinks theirs are so cute. (So brandish mine I never did…and please, I’d beg inwardly: don’t show me yours).
Ah, but grandkids are different.
So I post when Lucy makes funny faces—
And I boast when she bounces to music—
And I kvell when she dances on cue.
We ate dinner at home Saturday … had breakfast at Eggsperience Sunday…and shared timeless moments. (Did I tell you it was at the downtown Eggsperience that they first told me they were having Lucy?).
And then we left town. Stace gave directions to pick up the free way…and…not unlike the girl from the ‘80’s in the cage with the pet …well—let’s just say the S in GPS does not stand for Stacy.
But we did find our way.
And we drove home at peace.
And with smiles.
—To paddle through life … in between precious moments.