Grand stories deserve to be shared

My third-grade granddaughter Mary called the other night to make an appointment for homework help. An “appointment” is code, meaning, “Grandma, this is very important, so be prepared and focus.”

Mary’s teacher (a saint) had assigned the students a project which included drawing a family tree and learning something about as many family members as possible.

A minimum of three sentences about each branch was recommended.

What better way for the next generations to learn about where they came from, their family heritage and traditions? I was delighted to help, although there were some parts harder than others to discuss with this precious child — like the story about her great-grandmother’s maiden name which, at one time, was assigned to a horse swindler.

There were also stories of a great-great grandfather, a professor who retired from his university appointment to establish a “school for bad boys.”

“Why were they called ‘bad boys?’” Mary wanted to know. “Were they criminals?”

“Back in 1916, boys were considered to be candidates for the professor’s school because they didn’t attend public school regularly, didn’t bother to complete and hand in assignments or played roughly with the girls in their class,” I told her.

“So, they really weren’t that bad!” this child of the 21st century observed.

I also told her about how her great-grandmother, when she was 8, stood on the sidewalk of a main street in Dallas, waiting to see the famous American pilot, Charles Lindbergh, drive by in a welcome home parade.

“Who’s he?” Mary wanted to know, “and why is he famous?”

Of course the name Charles Lindbergh would mean nothing (to a child born in 2006), so I offered a quick history.

As we spoke, she also wanted to know how I met her grandfather and thought the story was “aw, so sweet,” and she wanted to know all about her daddy — his birth, what we did for fun “back in the old days” and she wondered if we had TVs and what kinds of cars we had.

I couldn’t see the notes she was making because her laptop cover was in the way, but as the hour melted into two, I realized how this conversation was bridging the gap between Mary’s generation and mine.

She couldn’t believe we were allowed to ride our bikes (or skate) to the corner store about a half -mile away from home, or that we only checked in from outdoor play at mealtimes.

“Weren’t you scared a stranger would take you?” she said.

I explained that didn’t happen much when I was a kid.

“Times are different now, and we have to be more careful,” I said.

“So, will my grandchildren have different lives than I have?” she asked, obviously thinking ahead.

“They might want to take a vacation to another planet,” I said. “They may eat different foods and they most certainly will be wearing different clothes.”

“How do you know those things, Grandma?” she said.

“I really don’t know,” I said. “I just know things change, and every generation lives life a bit differently.”

“You’re so smart,” Mary said.

“Not as smart as you will be when you grow up,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Like you don’t know how to work your cell phone?”

“Yes,” I said, “and that’s why all grandparents are so lucky. They have smart grandchildren, just like you.”