A GRANDCHILD IN SPRING

I´d imagined it while awake. I´d dreamt it in my sleep. But, neither state had fully prepared me for the announcement, when it came in a simple phone call:

"You´re going to be a grandfather."

A mere telephone is not nearly a grand enough medium for delivering such wondrous news. At the very least, when I´d rehearsed how & when I´d receive this generational sock-in-the-jaw if and when it ever arrived, I had it coming at me with pyrotechnic boom-bang sound effects, a squadron of skywriting fly-bys, and the world´s biggest marching band.

News like this demanded big nouns -- Hoopla! Hiawatha! Popocatepetl! -- as my neighborhood street suddenly filled with tumbling jesters, Oprah tossed roses at me from a passing limo and Geraldo Rivera dropped from a helicopter demanding an exclusive.

Okay, it didn´t happen quite that way, but that´s how it felt to me.

"You´re going to be a grandfather," the telephoned voice said unceremoniously -- no fanfare, no fireworks, but with the kind of restrained glee and prideful mischief only a daughter can deliver to her father.

I´ve forgotten exactly what I did do when I got the news, but after hanging up the phone I felt like a giant chocolatized rabbit dipped in multi-colored jimmies, inviting all comers to take a bite.

Or, imagine a speechless, man-sized, bouncy powdered doughnut. Now you´ve got it.

I mean … there it was! The wonder & beauty of a perennial flowerbed returning in all its new and re-blooming glory. The Monarch Butterfly miraculously making it back from Mexico. Schubert finishing the Symphony. The guilt-ridden descendants of Turkish vandals returning the long-lost arms of Venus de Milo. No metaphor was too mixed, all discords rang harmoniously, someone put the ram back in the rama-lama-ding-dong, and baby baby baby the world was just grand, Dad.

It followed, then, that months ahead of schedule, I´d send along a pre-greeting to the offspring of my offspring:

To My Dear Grandchild:

The news of you took me by surprise yesterday, though I must say my heart´s desire always knew you´d come around. And, now that you´re in the works, I thought I´d get the jump on your arrival. As of this writing, I don´t know your sex. Doesn´t matter. Either way I´ll be happy.

If you´re a boy, I hope we´ll someday have a chance to sit together in the cheap seats at Fenway, slosh around a mud season driveway and concoct the world´s finest mudpie, de-gut a catfish, ride an elephant, fly a bat kite off the end of an ocean breakwater, and feel like our feet are sculpting tools at the beach when a receding wave swishes the sand through our toes.

If you´re a girl … I hope the same things.

I envy you your beginnings, and the sweet lessons awaiting your special attendance. Your mother is a dancer, your father a musician, and to grow & learn in a home rich with movement and music is a gift surpassed only by life itself. I´m sure, if you´re listening and feeling right now, you´re hearing the mysterious but compelling rhythms from your Dad´s distant djembe drum, and rocking in the soothing sway of your mother´s hips moving in synch.

Your parents are preparing to welcome you, and you are loved.

Let´s do a quick check of your pre-born development:

There you are, (I´m looking at a medical book) already with clear outlines of a head, body and limbs. We could talk about what a wonder it is that you must breathe fluids now and air later, but let´s leave that to the scientists. Today, I have my poet´s hat on, and I prefer to speak of you as a returning verse, about to emerge written as never before.

(If you think that´s an enchanting sentiment, then you´re my daughter´s child, alright.)

You could not hope for a better start in this world. Your parents are special people who brought you here bonded in their love for each other, and their great expectation of you. You´re no accident. You are, however, a miracle, and you´re coming to them already cradled in devotion and celebration.

Lucky girl. Boy.

Some things you will bring with you; others you´ll discover as you go. It´s called nature versus nurture, and if you grow up to be tone-deaf and sprout two left feet, you´ll be loved no less. But, I suspect that even if you don´t dance, you´ll come to admire the dancer, and should you not play the music, you´ll still revel in the tune.

Your parents will provide the stage. How you perform on it will be all yours.

Welcome, welcome, welcome, dear child. They will love you forever, and I promise to do the same. Yes, even on the day when you intentionally strain the house paint with your mom´s leotards or accidentally drop the claw hammer through dad´s djembe.

I can hear the phone ringing now.

It´s an old familiar song and dance, come around again for the very first time.

Love, Grampa El

Syndicated humor columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from upstate NH. Copyright 2009 B. Elwin Sherman. All rights reserved. Used here with permission. This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Electronic or print reproduction, adaptation, or distribution without permission is prohibited. Ordinary internet links to this column at his Humorist-On-Loan blog may be distributed without written permission. You may contact him via his blog, at: humoristonloan.com.