My son Matt took Satchel to Mountain Cemetery on Veterans Day to honor Satchel’s great-grandfather, Calvin Frost, and dropped him off afterward to spend the day with me.
In great excitement, Satchel bursts through the front door. “Oma! Oma! Did you know that Grandpa Cal fought in the war and won all the battles and at the end of the war he killed Hitler?”
“Do tell. I think you got most of the story right.”
“What?” he asks, stopping short.
“Well, Grandpa Cal was in the war, and he may have won all the battles, but at the end of the war he didn’t kill Hitler.”
“Who did?”
“Hitler was the leader of Germany and a very bad man. When the Allied Forces invaded his country, he knew he’d lost the war and would be taken prisoner, so he killed himself.”
“Oh.” He lets this sink in, then asks, “Do you have any pictures of Hitler?”
“Not hanging on my walls, but I suppose we could find what he looks like on the computer.”
After some time on the Internet, he’s satisfied and says, “Oma, you were right. Hitler was a very bad man.”
He thinks a bit, then asks, “Do we have any bad men in the family?”
“No, but we have someone in the family who was killed by a bad man.”
“Who?”
“Harry Tracy was an outlaw in the Wild West, and he shot Valentine Hoy, my great-grandmother’s brother.”
“Do you have any pictures of him?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do.”
I pull out my Hoy history and show Satchel the pictures of Harry and Valentine.
He asks, leafing through it, “Oma, what is this?”
“It’s a book Uncle Gordon and I put together. This one is on my mother’s side of the family, and it’s about her, her parents, and their parents and all of their families in our Hoy line from the time they left Germany to come to this country.”
“Is my mom’s family in here?”
“No,” I say, “it’s your dad’s side of the family.”
He turns the pages, interested in everything.
“Would you like a copy of it when you grow up?” I ask.
“I would,” he says, oh so very earnestly.
“I knew I liked you,” and I kiss the top of his head.
The next day I get a call from his father.
“Is there any particular reason you’re having a conversation with my son about Hitler?”
To that, I respond, “Hey, you’re the one who opened it up. I didn’t bring him to the cemetery, you did. I was simply answering his questions.”
Meanwhile, sometime later, as I’m getting lunch together, Satchel is on my kitchen floor with both legs encircling my ankle, his arms around my calf. When I try to walk away, he hangs on, hoping for a ride. I’m wearing black cowboy boots. I lose my balance and bark, “Watch out! If I come down on you with my heel, you won’t be having any children.”
“What do you mean I won’t be having any children?”
“If I crush your cojones, you won’t be able to have kids.”
“What do you mean, I won’t be able to have kids?”
Ohmygod. I’ve had the death conversation. I’ve had the Hitler conversation. And now I’m heading into a sex conversation with a four-year-old.
I stutter and stammer. “It’s just, well, it’s just, it’s just, it’s just a…”
I’m grasping for words.
He saves me. “Oh, you mean, it’s just a saying?”
“Exactly. It’s just a saying.” I exhale with relief.
It’s not as if I haven’t been in enough trouble this month answering this kid’s questions.
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