'Grandpa, where are you, Grandpa.'
The call reached me from down the long hallway. The sounds of
scuffling slippers grew louder and, a moment later, Granddaughter's
curly head peeked around the edge of the kitchen doorway.
'What are you doing, Grandpa?' she asked.
'Coffee,' I replied, peering in her direction over the rim of my glasses.
'Mornin' coffee.'
'Oh,' she said, standing in the doorway.
Her eyes focused on the scene beyond the kitchen window. The broad
fronds of palm trees close by outside waved about furiously in the brisk
November wind. There are no palm trees in the city where
Granddaughter lives, and having arrived late the previous evening she
had not seen the ones near our home.
Granddaughter stared. Dashing past me to the window, she placed her
hands on the sill, and jumped to see out.
'When you visit us next year,' I said, 'you will be taller, and see over the
sill without jumping.'
'I want to see now,' she demanded, reaching up. 'Pick me up, Grandpa.'
With Granddaughter seated on my forearm and her arms wrapped
around my neck, we stared through the window. The palm nearest the
window bent before a gust and straightened. The fronds of two palms
across the driveway thrashed atop long, graceful trunks that leaned,
straightened, and yielded again to the boisterous wind.
'Grandpa,' Granddaughter said, turning to look at me, 'tell me a story that
has palm trees in it.'
Her eyes gleamed mischievously as she reached up to stroke my liberal
expanse of bare dome. She knew I couldn't resist that gesture.
'We've got a busy morning ahead of us, young lady,' I said. 'Here's what
I'll do. I'll write a letter to you with a story in it about palm trees. Then
Mother or Dad will read it to you and Grandson. OK?'
Granddaughter stared at the three palm trees and their gyrating tops.
'I want more than one story,' she smiled as her hand patted and stroked.
'Hm,' I grandpa-growled, 'you're a hard bargainer, my dear.'
'Gampa, Gampa,' an impatient shout burst down the hallway.
Pajama-clad Grandson tore into the dining room like a tornado and
climbed chairs. Too small to notice what was happening outside, he
pounded a seat with tiny fists. His mind was on something far more
important.
'French Toast, French Toast,' he demanded. 'I want French Toast.
Now!'
Granddaughter twisted from my arms, further talk about stories replaced
by this much higher priority.
'Me, too!' she shouted, joining the pounding.
Pots and pans rattled, dishes and bowls clattered, refrigerator doors
slammed, and utensils baton-waved in all directions. Grandpa had
launched into his traditional and celebrated French Toast Extravaganza
that began early each Thanksgiving Day morning.
***
Thanksgiving is past. The grandchildren are back home in a distant city.
Grandpa has a promise to keep.