Grandpa

I know I must have written about this before, me being a grandfather, although it is always a surprise when I think of it.  Somehow I never thought of Charlie, the grandfather.  My own were dim shadows in the periphery of my childhood family history, two dying after lengthy illness in their beds in our home, where grandparents used to die, the other, much more robust, the "Boston grandmother," with the Beacon Hill accent and Edith Wharton manner, always exciting my mother's admiration and trepidation lived in Oak Park with one of her aunts and we saw her on our trips to Chicago, taken into her presence, being inspected through her lorgnette and dismissed.  Lots of fun, right?  That was a grandparent, those three, to my childish mind.  Remote, formidable, ugh!  When I became a teenager and such a silly, flaming fruitcake, Charlie as grandfather was the kind of laughable idea that my siblings might come up with in a round of merriment.  Ha, ha, ha.  Well, here I am folks, eighty six and counting, and father of four, grandfather of six, and great grandfather of two.  Whew! is all I have to say.  Last night we journeyed down to a beach front cafe to have dinner with the two children of my oldest child, and their two offspring,  the Canadian great grandchild who was visiting his uncle and wife and their daughter, his cousin, and my great granddaughter.  Dynasty.  I sat at the head of the table along with my husband and my daughter who was visiting, and surrounded by my grandchildren and their spouses, plus these two adorable baby children one under one the other under two, neither making the slightest fuss, betraying the incredible good natures of their parents, if not their grandfather.  I felt enclosed in love and respect.  As I made my progress from the restaurant tottering along with my cane, with all this retinue, I knew that somehow somewhere I had arrived.