NOVEMBER 26, 2025 – Weeks in advance we’d been informed that Tuesday would be “Grandparents Day” at our two-year-old grandson’s school. I envisioned joining a cast of thousands for a royal tour, a review of recent art projects, and a full raft of presentations and demonstrations greeted by a robust round of applause, followed by an extended “meet and greet” among fellow grandparents as we drank our coffee and popped donut holes—plain or dusted in powdered sugar, take your pick—into our mouths.
The occasion turned out to be radically different. Soon after we landed in Connecticut (all the way from Minnesota), we learned that although the school had reserved time for “Grandparents Day,” no arrangements had been made to celebrate it. The word was, “we could visit, if we wished.” On Tuesday morning my wife informed me that “If we wanted to, we could read a story a story to the kids.” She selected the story—Escargot—and appointed me to be the reader, since I have “a much better French accent” than she does. At least I wasn’t required to read the story en française, which would’ve revealed just how good my French accent is not.
We appeared at our appointed time—10:30—toward the end of class, which, on account of this being Thanksgiving week, was reduced from 3:00 to 11:30. I could feel the butterflies; not those decorating the room but the ones flitting about in my stomach: I hadn’t had time to rehearse my French accent except to read silently various road and advertising signs on the 15-minute drive to the school. The two instructors, exuding joy for their work and kindness toward their charges, greeted us warmly and invited us to join the eight young students, sitting four at each of the two tables. It had been a while since I’d sat on a chair eight inches off the floor. I was glad I didn’t have to see “a cast of thousands” of other grandparents struggle off their chairs when class was over.
We’d arrived in the middle of snack time, which featured fruit, vegetables, and elbow macaroni—no cheese. My wife introduced us as the grandparents, our grandson’s grandparents, and asked the kids their names. After a minute or two of small talk (I told the teachers how much I liked the world map on the back wall and the row of small international flags on a nearby shelf), my wife, who is a “take charge with social grace” kind of person, turned to me and said, “Well, Grandpa, do you want to read a story now?” The instructors seconded the motion.
I jumped to my feet—well, not exactly jumped, but stood up as gracefully as I could, making sure of my footing so as not to (a) embarrass or (b) injure . . . myself, and strode over to the corner where we’d laid our coats and Escargot (along with the stuffed incarnation of Escargot that had come with the book).
If I’d been more committed to my role, I would’ve borrowed from our grandson’s recent Halloween costume: a perfectly fitted, home-tailored Escargot outfit. On the other hand, I hadn’t wanted to embarrass anyone—most notably, myself—by dressing up as a legendary figure of la haute cuisine de Paris. But that was before the imagined “cast of thousands” dwindled to a dozen—the eight kids, the two instructors, and my wife and I, my wife having been embarrassed so many times by my antics, she’s now immune. In any event, I opened our grandson’s handsome book, Escargot, held it high off to the side, open pages facing the kids, and gave them a dramatic reading with my perfected French accent.
The key to a successful presentation of any sort is, “Know your audience.” When you’re having to affect what to you is a foreign accent, however, the required level of concentration doesn’t leave much bandwidth for reading your audience, even if it comprises only eight two-year-olds and two instructors. By the fourth page, my wife, who was reading the audience, leaned toward me and said bluntly, “Speed it up. You can skip stuff, you know. You’re losing your audience.”
And so I was—once I took notice. It was time for me to drop words and skip pages in a mad dash to the finish. Good thing, I thought, that I didn’t have to abridge on the fly while speaking French; maintaining my French accent was work enough. But all’s well that end’s well, which was the case with the story of Escargot at our grandson’s school.
Now I can kick back and enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with family and friends. Despite our French connection, I’m pretty sure escargot won’t be on the menu.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
