An Inkling
We called him Pop. He was my maternal grandfather. We’d see him a couple of times a year when we
made our family pilgrimage to San Angelo, Texas. Hoping that I would follow in his golfing
footsteps, Pop gave me a set of used golf clubs when I was thirteen. I tried my hand at it, but I never really
took to his golfing passion.
I did, however, take to his
perverse sense of humor, which was always on display at the family table. There I took careful mental notes as he fired
off one bad pun after another. My tendencies
to the same vice have deep family roots.
I also remember the great
anticipation with which my brother and I awaited the crowning event of every
meal. After dessert, as sure as
clockwork, Pop would belch, and my grandmother would say, “Oh George!” And he would respond, “Sign of a fine meal.” My brother and I would just about bust a gut
trying to stifle giggles, which was made all the harder by the nonplussed look
on our mother’s face – she who was trying valiantly to corral similar
tendencies in her sons.
Many were the gifts provided
by my parents, but they were different than those provided by Pop. For that matter, the gifts Pop gave his own
children were different from those he gave us.
Parents have to tend to business.
Someone has to teach the little devils manners, cleanliness, discipline,
and priorities. And since parents major
in such business matters, then grandparents get to major in delight. Grandparents delight in their grandchildren,
which adds a delightful element to their times together.
Our emotional and intuitive
starting place with God is greatly shaped by our parents, for good and for
ill. The “ill” part of that is greatly
ameliorated by grandparents, who lend parents a much needed hand in planting
God’s kind of delight deep in the hearts of children.
We now have four grandchildren,
with two more on the way. They call me
Pop. And I’m trying to live up to my
name.
Mamas
beware,
Pop
