MARCH 15, 2023 – If you want to check out from the woes of the world, spend a couple of days with a first-grader at a snowbound cabin in the Northwoods.
That’s the formula that my wife and I followed starting Tuesday evening. After our seven-year-old granddaughter’s swimming class at the “Y,” the three of us drove to the Red Cabin, arriving after dark. The three-hour trip was filled with non-stop lively chatter, reading, singing, questions, and a few math problems thrown in for good measure—plenty to displace the disturbing “breaking news” of the day—or of any other day.
After squeezing down our narrow drive, we alighted from the car and immediately fell under the spell of a million diamonds in the sky. For the rest of our precious time here at the cabin, we’ve been stage actors directed by our granddaughter’s imagination. If my wife and I will emerge from this trip looking no younger than we did at its outset, we’ll certainly have far lighter hearts.
Today was a long train of wonders led by Illiana: spectator art; a jigsaw puzzle of Paris by night, repeated with pieces flipped to depict Paris by day; face-painting featuring objects of our solar system; paper crowns made from construction paper and a box of colored pens and markers, staples and glue; songs and dance, all actively choreographed by a little girl with big energy; and excursions on snowshoes into the big snow of the big woods and “free-style” walks on the frozen lake.
One of the most memorable moments of this remarkable day was when Illiana and I walked into the natural shelter provided by a large red pine bending over the lake. There we listened to the “wind’s voice in the pine boughs,” as I called the calming susurration. We took turns imitating the sound, achieving the same effect that meditation works on the soul.
The most amusing occasion occurred during Illiana’s made-up game called “Galaxy,” in which each of us—still sporting face-painted stars, meteors and crescent moons—was assigned a role corresponding to a planet. Beth started singing “Age of Aquarius,” then broke off and asked Illiana if she knew the term “hippy.” She didn’t. If you’re looking for levity, listen to a Boomer’s explanation to her ever so innocent seven-year-old granddaughter—conspicuously avoiding any reference to hallucinogens and anti-war demonstrations.
Seven is a perfect age. The mind is expanding like the early universe; the imagination still knows no bounds but is developing upon a burgeoning frame of reference; reading takes off like fireworks on the Fourth of July. In a few short years, the seven-year-old’s grandparents will be older, not wiser, and she’ll want to fly higher and farther than time with us can accommodate. Such is the way of life and why I delight in the present . . . and in the presence of a seven-year-old.
Tomorrow we’ll return our granddaughter to her parents and, inevitably, return our attention to the “breaking news.” If we were wise, not merely old, we’d not refuel our worries and instead, refine our face-painting skills. If only we could just say “No” to (medicinal) drugs.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
