MARCH 24, 2026 – Today at Beth’s suggestion, we took our fourth grader granddaughter to Central Park after picking her up from school; not the Central Park but its namesake in the adjoining town of Roseville. Saturday’s teaser temp—in the mid-70sF—had passed eastward, but with the mercury at 50F and the sun edging another three days higher, we weren’t about to complain about the weather.
All three of us were ready for spring, though Illiana showed more outward enthusiasm for it than her grandparents allowed themselves: within two minutes of our arrival at the park, Illiana was handing off her down jacket to me. I reminded her that she was unwittingly emulating her daddy and uncle at her age. “Whenever they handed me their stuff,” I said, “I’d joke, ‘What?! Do I look like a coatrack?’ They never took their jackets back.”
Neither did Illiana this afternoon. But I was perfectly happy carrying her jacket. Pressed against my chest, the extra layer of down gave me added protection against the light breeze. Beth, I noticed, tightened up the collar on her own down jacket.
Free from her winter garb, Illiana flitted about like a robin recently arrived from its long migration north. Running to one tree, bench or boulder then on to another along the curving walkway, she’d soon covered four times the ground that Beth and I had. Then, inevitably, I suppose, upon reaching the top of a modest rise in the ground, she dropped down with her face up, then straightened her legs, pulled in her arms and rolled down the sloping good earth . . . one rotation two, three rotations four . . . and so on until she’d reached the edge of the walkway. Her grandparents smiled and laughed as they too rolled in delight down the shallow slope—vicariously.
We continued our stroll along the walkway to the not-yet-flowering crab trees, planted by the local funeral home in memory of all the people named in the “Book of Names” under the locked glass of a box on a sturdy post at the edge of the little orchard. Until I’d recently uncovered a letter and certificate from a dust-covered bankers box, I’d forgotten that my mother’s name is in that “Book of Names.” Just as Beth and Illiana moved on, I recalled the flowering crab in our yard in Anoka. Dad had planted it soon after we’d moved into my parents’ dream house, and every spring thereafter, Mother exulted in the tree’s explosion of fragrant blossoms.
I soon moved on, hurrying to catch up to Beth and Illiana as they entered the nearby woods. By this time, Illiana had found a sizable stick—more of a walking staff, which she put to good use stirring up last fall’s leaves and other detritus. Until recently, the grays and browns were hidden under winter’s white blanket.
From high above us came the rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat of an invisible woodpecker. We strained our necks to survey the tangle of leafless cottonwood branches for sight of the bird. Only after Beth had continued did I finally see the noisemaker, then a second one, as they flew to another perch.
We strolled on.
“What’s your favorite bird?” Illiana asked, as she stopped to poke at some leaves.
“Hmmm. Good question. I’d say the blue bird. What’s your favorite bird?”
“The hummingbird,” she said, ditching the walking staff.
She ran ahead to catch up to Beth. As I hastened along, I acknowledged to myself the good but fleeting fortune of being in that place at that time. I could see, smell, feel earth coming to life again after a long hard winter. Against the backdrop of all the bind-boggling trends, conditions, and developments unfolding in the greater world—nearly all of them disturbing—I found solace in the irresistible regeneration of life, of “nature,” as we call it, and most of all, in Illiana’s carefree delight.
We continued our expedition by heading to the playground on the other side of the meadows. Illiana had the extensive and unusual equipment to herself, and soon the three of us turned the space into an active portrait studio.
Later, back home, Beth and Illiana worked on the design and construction of an Easter “Peep” house—two creative minds turning ordinary materials into an extraordinary project. I marveled at their efficiency and proficiency, but most of all, at their mutual satisfaction with the outcome of their joint project.
After a light supper came time for out-loud reading, Beth and Illiana alternating, then a drawing session for Illiana, ever the artist.
Finally, it was time for Illiana to say her usual farewell to Beth: “Good-bye, Grandma! Love you to the moon!”
“Love you to infinity!” came the reply.
Beth repaired to her office, as Illiana and I exited the house. “Do you know how much your grandma loves you?” I asked the 10-year-old.
“A 100%?”
“Every bit of 100%,” I said.
As usual, we talked every moment of the 15-minute drive—about extended family, school, and for her, as a fledgling violinist, the importance of daily discipline. I suggested focusing foremost on regularity (daily), worrying about duration later. “Even if it’s only for one minute, Illiana. One minute! Just make sure it’s every day, preferably at the same time. Once you’re in the habit, go for two minutes, then five, then fifteen.”
As she alighted from the car and her dad appeared at the top of the front steps, I heard the greatest music ever composed: “I love you Grandpa! See you tomorrow!” Then came an encore: “And I’ll start practicing—one minute!”
I gave her a gentle hug of gratitude for her companionship with Beth and me this afternoon and told her how much we loved her. Waving good-bye to Illiana and Cory, I got back into the car and drove home with hope for the world restored; mood and morale renewed.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
