Tales of Grandchildren…The Baby, an Angel, and Bees

An Ancient Being ~ It was the day after his birth that I held my grandson for the first time. I remember having this tiny creature cradled in my arm, peering into his dark eyes, thinking he looked nothing like a baby, but more like a wise and ancient being. A week later I brought my stepmother, who lives in Santa Rosa, over to Matt and Brooke’s to meet him. As Marie is 85 and the matriarch and elder in the family, I offer to have her hold Satchel first. After twenty minutes, I'm itching to have him. “Can I hold him now?’ “No,” she says, “I still want him.” “I’d like to hold him.” She again refuses my request. “Marie, it’s my turn." “No.” “You mean you’re not going to let me hold my grandson?” “When I’m done,” she says coolly. Something in me snaps and I lean forward, latch onto his little foot, and order, “Give me that baby!” “No!" she says, tightening her grip on him. By now I’m tugging on his leg. Marie won’t let go, and I’m trying to pry him from her. My son, watching this tug-of-war, snorts, “Oh my God, somebody get me a video camera.” Realizing that I appear crazed, I let go. She reluctantly hands him over to me, knowing I'm coming after her next. Selfish witch. March 2003 A White Angel ~ We are at the Sonoma Valley Museum of Art for “The Day of the Dead” exhibition. Satchel is still a baby and I have him on my hip, carrying him around to look at all the colorful exhibits. We stand entranced before a beautiful ten-foot angel, dressed in white with perfect feathered wings and flowing blonde hair. My grandson sucks in his breath and releases a soft, “Pretty!” I'm stunned that a nine-month-old understands the concept of pretty. It was his first spoken word with me. His father's first word was "moon," an easier concept, but just as magical. My other son's first word was "no," which is probably standard for the second born. November 2004 Close Call ~ Satchel was maybe two, and we were holding hands crossing Broadway, walking from my office to the park. I heard their eerie sound before I saw them. We were in front of the first car in the intersection and out of nowhere, not six feet away, also in the intersection and heading straight into us, was a huge swarm of honeybees. I grabbed Satchel by his skinny little arm and backpedaled in what seemed like slow motion to get out of their path. Then everything sped up to warp speed as we made it under the corner bank’s overhang, squatting together, my body shielding his. My grandson had on a tank top, shorts, and sandals, and though I had less skin exposed, I’m allergic to bee stings. “Oma, that was close! What WAS that?” “Darling, that was our life passing before our eyes.” As the swarm continued up the street, I explained it was a colony of bees probably from one of the nearby beekeepers looking for a new home, and that we were lucky we got out of their way. He had no idea how lucky. My first memory was being stung by a bee. It could have been my last. Spring 2005