MARCH 31, 2026 – Yesterday our son Cory sent me a mid-day text seeking confirmation that I was planning to pick up our fourth-grader granddaughter from school. I replied immediately with a “thumbs up” emoji. At my stage of life, few things could give me greater delight than time with Illiana, starting with the 15-minute car ride from her school to our driveway. In so many ways Illiana reminds us of her daddy—the perfectly round head, an affinity for lego projects, unusual artistic ability, and articulate conversation in the car.
While Beth is in the Nutmeg State visiting our other two grandchildren (and parents) for the week, I’m running solo back here. Yesterday brought splendid spring weather, and when Illiana hopped into the car, I suggested that we capitalize on the warm temps and sunny skies.
“On the ride over,” I said, “I figured that we could celebrate this fine weather by getting a treat and going to the park, hanging out there until you’ve had enough before driving to our house where you can do sidewalk chalk art to your heart’s content.”
“That sounds good,” said Illiana.
Soon we were seated at the picnic tables outside a local Dairy Queen, where I watched Illiana devour a chocolate-chip-mint-dipped ice cream cone. From there we drove the short distance to the west end of Roseville’s vast Central Park.
“I’ll follow your lead,” I said, as we assumed a lackadaisical gait toward a massive playground structure painted a bright yellow-green and equipped with all sorts of slides, stairs, poles, multi-level platforms, ropes and ladders. To Illiana’s eyes and mine, it looked like the Emerald City. With her jacket hooked on my finger and draped back over my shoulder, I strolled and watched as Illiana tested out one feature, then another. She’s naturally cautious, but at nearly 10-and-a-half, she’s showing less reticence and more confidence.
After 20 minutes or so at play in the Emerald City, I suggested that we walk on the connecting path around the south end of the adjacent lake to Central Park’s main playground on the opposite shore—about a quarter-mile away.
“Sure,” Illiana said to my proposal. With that we sauntered along, carefree and light-hearted until . . . I slammed on my foot brakes.
“Illiana!” I said abruptly. “We forgot—your art class!”
“Oh yeah!”
In a panic I checked the time and saw that we had a barely a half hour to reach our house and set up for Illiana’s weekly live online art class. We weren’t yet in trouble, but there was no time to waste.
Twenty-five minutes later, Illiana was all set up on our back porch (with a little long-distance iPad assistance from Grandma), ready to take instruction on how to draw the animal of the week: the glorious dolphin. And I was set up at the other end of the porch, ready to write my daily post. All’s well that starts on time.
Meanwhile, however, Cory texted that he was still tied up at work and could I keep Illiana, even feed her supper. I sent him my usual “thumbs up” reply. Now with extra time on our hands, when Illiana’s class concluded, I asked the little artist if she’d like to drive back to Central Park, this time to the main playground. She gave it a “go”—expressed as much by the delight on her face as the spark in her voice.
Again, I watched as Illiana played—and mingled with other kids, the vast majority of whom appeared to be the children of immigrant parents. I exchanged smiles with all whose paths I crossed. It was impossible not to think of their tribulations of late and was reassured by their courage, their determination to forge ahead with their lives as new Americans. I wanted to engage each and every one of them in conversation, but I held back. Seeing their kids climb and slide and laugh and yell carefree was enough in the moment to make those parents smile and laugh too. I didn’t want to remind them of what none of us needed to remember while enjoying an otherwise perfectly fine spring evening in Minnesota, the home we all now shared.
As the earth’s horizon rose to meet, then swallow the sun, Illiana and I followed the walkway back to the western shore of the lake. We noticed many wonderful things along the way—natural sculptures in the form of old cottonwood stumps by the water; unusual platter fungi on old logs soon to be hidden by the greening of the surrounding woods; a gaggle of Canada geese swimming in tight circles not far from a group of mallards doing likewise; the glow of the sun’s reflection on the water; the repetitive, four-part birdsong from unseen voices among the trees not yet emergent from winter’s grip.
Then out of the blue, like the raptor that appeared from nowhere and landed just beyond us, Illiana asked, “Grandpa . . . how is life to be lived?”
This from the mouth and mind—and heart and soul—of a fourth-grader. But not any fourth-grader. From “our” li’l Illiana, whose insights into the human conditions are beyond her years, and certainly beyond her grandfather’s years.
Yet as a grandparent, I was tempted to launch into some kind of meaningful and memorable discourse. Fortunately, I caught myself. Illiana deserved, if she hadn’t subconsciously desired, a response equal in simple elegance to the question itself. Yet I knew that such was beyond my ability, at least without days, perhaps years of development, and by then the sun would have set many times on my imaginary plein air canvas and easel. I decided that the best interim reply was a penciled sketch with two strokes of color; that is, acknowledgment and two notions of “how life is to be lived.”
“Illiana,” I said, taking two steps to give my headgears time to move, “that is an absolutely wonderful question—and one that everyone should ask continually . . . But how to answer it? I’d say life is to be lived with two things always in mind: kindness toward others and beauty—beauty in all its manifestations . . . And now I have to ask you,” I said. “How do you think life should be lived?”
“I don’t think I’m old enough yet to be able to answer the question.”
“Fair enough,” I said, but silently I was thinking just the opposite. Merely by having put the question to me was ample evidence that Illiana has standing to grapple with its answer.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
