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Excerpt
Sundays with Grandpa
My plane landed at Cleveland Hopkins
International Airport late on a Sunday afternoon. Rented a Dodge
Intrepid and drove the sixty-odd miles to my girlhood home to pick up my
sons, Roger and Douglas. They had spent the last three weeks with
Grandma and Grandpa.
With each mile I traveled, my sense of
expectation grew. My sons were being exposed to the way of life that I
was raised on—church every Sunday, dinner at the dining room table
prayer before every meal, no eating in the living room. These were the
kind of values that, with our two-income fast paced life, I had not been
able to give my sons.
I pulled into the driveway between the
tall pines and walked to the side of the house unannounced. I wanted to
witness the polish and discipline that my sons now wore.
Before I turned the corner of the
backyard, I hear the boys giggling and peeked over the side up the
upstairs porch.
Both boys were devoid of any clothing and
were peeing on the petunias next to the downstairs patio. Grandpa stood
at the end of the porch, peacock proud and beaming at the antics of his
grandsons. When the boys finished, they took off running in the
backyard. Their giggling filled the warm summer breeze.
“Mom!” they boys cried in unison when
they saw me. They ran toward me with all the exuberance that carefree,
sun-filled days grant. Two pairs of chubby arms circled my neck.
Both boys shrugged in unconcern and took
off running in the backyard. Grandpa waved two pair of underwear toward
them, the boys slipped ‘em on, and they took off running again.
“I wish I had half their energy,” Grandpa
said.
What? No chastising for peeing on
Grandma’s flowers? No scolding for running outside in your underwear?
“Mom, look what we have!” Roger
exclaimed.
Holding what was supposed to be a sand
pail, he ran-walked toward me with his brother.
“Grandpa’s bullets,” Douglas announced. They dropped the pail, and a
mound of empty shotgun shells littered the grass.
“We shot Grandpa’s gun,” both boys said
at the same time.
Expecting to get clarification that the
boys were in error, I looked at Grandpa.
“You remember the 12 gauge shotgun?”
Grandpa asked.
No, I did not remember the 12-guage or
any other gauge gun.
“Stop making that expression or your face
will stay like that.” Grandpa scolded me. “I supervised.”
Like that comment was going to make me
feel better!
“You let a four-year-old and a
six-year-old shoot a 12 gauge? I asked.
“We aren’t allowed to shoot it without
Grandpa holding it for us,” Roger explained.
“He makes us close our eyes when he puts
it away so we can’t find it,” Douglas added.
“You know I lock it in the gun safe,” Grandpa said.
His look of offense that I would question
him about letting a four-year-old and a six-year-old shoot the 12-guage
bordered on disbelief.
I walked into the television room, and
the Cartoon Network blazed in the background.
“Those Ninja Turtles are pretty cute,” Grandpa said to me.
At that prompt, my sons took on a karate
pose and started wresting with Grandpa. The trio fell to the floor and
knocked the empty pizza box off the coffee table.
“Pizza?” I asked. “On Sunday?”
“It’s quicker and it gives me more time
with them,” he said.
“You did go to church today, right?” I
asked.
“Of course! Why wouldn’t we?” Grandpa
asked.
“We sang songs and go to stand on the
pews,” Roger said to me and then explained to Grandpa, “Mom never lets
us stand on the pews.”
“Grandpa, I gotta go to the bathroom,”
Doug said.
“You know the routine,” Grandpa stated.
Douglas pulled his underwear off, rand
outside to the patio, and watered the flowers once again.
Grandpa’s grin filled the room. “That’s
my boy, he said. “That’s my boy.”
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