The Greensboro Chronicles: Chapter One

First of all, a confession:  These are not necessarily chronological chronicles, nor did they all take place in the same place at the same time, nor are they all completely factual, important, or historical.  I’m not even sure they are “Chronicles” because I didn’t look up the meaning of chronicles.

I have spent more time with my granddaughter in the past 12 months than I did in the first four years of their life.  (Not counting video chats, which have been hit or miss in terms of opportunities to truly engage.)  I suspect the video chats have turned me into a character from their digital world who sometimes comes to life like Elsa and Santa at a parade last night that we watched from a reasonably good roped-off viewing area, me holding them steady as they stood on the railing of the green wrought iron fence guarding the grass between us and Main Street so they could see better.

Later, they didn’t want me to sit next to them at dinner. So that’s how it goes sometimes.

Like that time toward the end of our last visit, the time when about halfway through the week they decided they didn’t like me much,  except to bounce on or reach high stuff.  One night, it was going to be hot chocolate night, and they needed marshmallows.  They took my hand and pulled and said, “Lift me up” as they opened the refrigerator door.  I lifted. “Higher.” They curled their legs up to their belly and thrust their feet forward onto the shelf where the bottom freezer ends, then pushed up in a direction my muscles don’t go anymore and started rummaging through the top shelf on the refrigerator door, telling me, “This is where we keep the candy.”

“Nope,” and they jumped down candyless from the perch and pointed to a high cupboard.

“Look there,” they ordered. I pulled all the packages out of that cupboard – crackers, cookies, fruit roll-ups, and such, but no mallows.

“I guess we have to use the cereal,” they said, resigned to the best they could do. 

I poured Lucky Charms into a bowl, and they picked out marshmallows and put them in their cocoa, and we went into the living room to watch Baking Channel.  Their suggestion, since tomorrow we were baking cookies.

For one thing, my granddaughter speaks their mind.   When the plumber walked into the living room, they informed him, “I’m four!” and, pointing to us, “They’re from California.” When I told them one morning to talk quietly so Mommy and Daddy didn’t hear them and wake up, they told me matter-of-factly, “My Daddy doesn’t hear.  He feels.”   

The first time we took them to their school, we were messing with an “app” called “Google Maps” to translate the militaristic directions we were given (‘left, then right, then left, right, left,’) when we fell out of step. “This is not the right way,” came a voice from the car seat in back, and I was moved by their choice of words, not the blamey “wrong way” admonition but the objective “not the right way.” 

I never felt blamed either when I acknowledged that I didn’t know how to put MineCraft into “creative mode.” They didn’t bring up that I had had to call their Mom at her conference in Berlin for a quick refresher on how to even get MineCraft to even show up on the TV.  They just told their friend that they could play it in this mode until Mom comes home because grandparents don’t know.

There was also no trace of annoyance in their voice when, when I said I couldn’t close the back door while the keyfob was in the ignition, they had to get more specific than “press the button” and tell me “the button above your head,” not like the annoyance I saw in a family friend’s granddaughter’s eyes when her grandmother momentarily stumbled with the UI on someone else’s smartphone camera while a small group of acquaintances froze their smiles and poses.

There was even a touch of pride in their voice when . . . well, let me tell it right.  Once we were driving to 5 o’clock dance class in the minivan, and the roommate spotted and announced a “H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N S-T-O-R-E.”

5yo Voice from the car seat: “Where’s the Halloween store?”.

Driver (me): “Well you might not be able to read, but you sure can spell.”

5yo Car Seat: “Yep, I can’t read, but I sure can spell.”

Three months later, I realize there is a connection between their spelling prowess and the finger-spelling they sometimes uses with their Daddy.

The parking lot at dance class was all minivans and SUVs. After class we waited to back out  until the SUV’s near us pulled out and before the minivans of the 6 o’clock class pulled in.