I come from a long line of people who do not believe in treating children like delicate china. I am the product of generations of pragmatic, keen-witted, and sharp-tongued folk telling it like it is and expecting kids to keep up. Nowhere is this more evident than in my relationship with my paternal grandfather, John Edward Rives. This is a man who never let me win at anything just because I was young or cute or inexperienced. He always paid me the respect of holding me to the same standards he would any adult, and, even though it took years, I have an abiding appreciation for that now. I lost at cards, got my fingers routinely snapped in the elastic-pulling game, and had to improve my storytelling ability in order to keep his interest
. Mine has been a bring-your-A-game grandchildhood, because there is no minor league in this family. On the other hand, I learned to walk on the stilts he made me, knew a pretty impressive adult-stumping card trick at seven, and discovered the power of the narrative from the master. I chose to read Barbara Borack’s Grandpa to Scarlett as a tribute to her paternal
grandfather, who has connected with his only granddaughter on a level only they truly understand, but found myself with quavering voice and wet eyes thinking of my grandpa, now ninety-one and in a battle with time, age and illness, sitting in my grandma’s red and white kitchen telling the “hush puppy” story just one more time.
As a postscript:When I sat down at my computer to post the day's blog, I received a message that my grandfather had peacefully slipped away in the early hours of this morning. I pray (or whatever else will work) that there really is something after this and that they are together.
http://www.alibris.com/search/books/qwork/2683915/used/Grandpa.
http://www.lincbook.com/ap_barbara_borack.html
