WHAT REALLY MATTERS

APRIL 3, 2024 – What I’d initially slapped on the board for this post was a sweeping and eminently quotable (I was sure) political rant. The tirade connected House Republicans’ dithering over Ukraine, yesterday’s earthquake in Taiwan, TSMC’s (Taiwan Semi-Conductor Manufacturing Co.) near global monopoly in the production of high-end chips, the devastation of life in Gaza, and the presidential candidacy of a clown. For starters.

I then stepped away for a few hours to do honest legal work. When I returned to the blog drawing board, I laughed at my indignation. Readers would either agree, in which case, what was the point? Or they’d disagree, in which case, again, what was the point of getting all red in the face? Not a single mind would be changed by the color of my face or the content of my post.

Saving my readers from a rant had its downside, however: what would I write about instead? I have another series in mind, but it’s still in the formative stage.

“Look around,” I told myself. “What do you see that’s as bright as the sun but right down here on earth?”

Of course: our eight-year-old granddaughter. Because of our recent under-the-weather status, Beth and I haven’t been able to accommodate the little girl’s visits as we usually do or would prefer. Now that my wife and I are enjoying better health, however, we can look forward to more granddaughter time.

The first opportunity arose yesterday. Our son called to ask if I could pick her up from school and ferry her home, since her mother would be home from work by that time. I jumped at the chance.

When Illiana exited the school, I was filled with delight. She was wearing her favorite cat-ears headband, and when she saw my car, her face lit up. “Grandpa!” she called out, as I lowered the windows. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Illiana! I’ve missed you something fierce!”

“Me too,” she said, climbing aboard. Her sweet smile filled the car with sunshine. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Much, much better,” I said. “And seeing you makes me feel even better yet. How are you?”

“Good.” By this time we were edging forward in the pick-up line. With the back window still down, she faced outward to catch a glimpse of friends and acquaintances. She shouted out their names and waved. The other kids waved back. Illiana is a sociable kid, always reaching out, and I told her that was a good trait.

I switched the radio from news to music, and off we drove. Illiana asked about her grandma and how she was feeling. “Can we stop by your house so I can say ‘Hi’?” asked the second grader.

“Sure,” I said. By this time Illiana had thoughtfully donned a face mask. “Grandma would love that. She still has a cold but is doing better, and seeing you would really light up her day.”

I asked how school was (“good”), and she then told me about the books she’d checked out from the library. After more talk, a break. At a stop light, I stole a glance and saw a pensive look on her face as she peered out the window. Then came the expected: an unexpected question: “Grandpa,” she said, “is asking free?”

I chuckled and repeated the question. “Sure,” I then answered. “Asking is always free. You might not get what you’re seeking and you might have to pay something for it, but the asking part is always free. That’s why it never hurts to ask.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, as the light turned green.

A few minutes later we pulled into the driveway. Beth didn’t know that we were making a brief stop at our house. We let ourselves through the back entryway quietly. Illiana quickly hid around a corner of the kitchen as Beth approached from the living room and into the dining room. When Beth appeared, Illiana cried out with glee, and the two were locked in a hug much as a piece of steel snaps onto a magnet.

As we pulled out some snacks for our favorite visitor, her voice, her laugh, her energy lit up the kitchen. I realized how precious she is to us, to all who know her. All our woes dissipate in her presence. That is the magic she wields.

I showed her the latest video of her eight-month-old cousin, a recording of the little guy’s first baby belly laugh. Illiana joined in his laughter, as did Beth and I, and this chorus was the finest music of the day.

In time Illiana and I exited the house. She and Beth engaged in their litany of farewells: “I love you to the moon!” says one.

“I love you to infinity!” says the other.

“I love you into a black hole and out the other side!” says Illiana. And so on.

On the ride home we talked about books, unicorns, and ideas for gnome homes and fairy castles. As her Mother greeted us at our destination, Illiana collected her things and exited the car.

“I love you, Illiana!”

“I love you, Grandpa!”

Now tell me, what political rant could possibly top an account of an eight-year-old’s sunshine in our day?

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson