Every so often, Mona and I attend to a close friend’s First Grader while the single mother does her required corporate traveling gig for one of the remaining Fortunate 100 oligopolies. During these few time warped days each month I am thrust into grandfatherly duties which I find to be almost Dali-esque as I, at age 52, can still recall a good portion of my own first school years with vivid, if not shocking clarity–at least the surreal parts; unlike my youngest sister who refers to her similar childhood in the same household as ‘those blacked-out years.’ (And yes, to this day, we both refuse formal therapy, and meds, my sis and I.) Melting timepieces, I’m telling you.
I have nieces, too, who visit Chicago once a year—one teen (demure and traditional) and one pre-teen (iconoclastic from her very first breath). Both lovely, if not opposite in all but genetic ways. I have one daughter (history teacher) who is now 30 and lives out of state and one step-son (a sommeliere) who is 25 who lives in another world. There are some neighborhood kids, of course… and that’s pretty much it. Most of the other unattached people I hang with have already lost most of the hair they will ever lose and, for some consistent reason, are long term participants in one type of 12 Step Program or another–their respective youths totally exhausted; sucked dry to the bone, long ago and far, far away. In other words, I just may lack the experience needed for these incremental domestic duties I’m called upon to perform on occasion. I’m too soft a touch and frankly, don’t have the energy to exert discipline anymore. Just don’t burn down the house or torture the dog. Easy on the cat, too. Pretty expansive boundries, I would think, even for someone as indifferent and mortally aware as myself. But for some odd reason, I think of children as living on forever.
“Uncle Geno, can I have another candy bar?”
“Sure. I don’t care.”
“Can I play with your iPhone?”
“Sure. Just don’t drop it in the toilet.”
“Can I run off with Read more
