I awake in plenty of time.
It’s 8:30, the last day in the school year at
Franklin School in Summit, NJ where daughter Ashley teaches - third grade, Special Education
Today I've been asked to pick up grandson Johnny, age 8, at the school. He came to Franklin with his mom for an early morning play-date with one of Ashley’s students,
Jason. It's a special last day favor for Jason.
"Don't be late," my daughter reminded me, the night before.
"Don't be late," my daughter reminded me, the night before.
"Alarm set," I replied.
I leave my home at 9:20 toting two cups of coffee. The day is perfect –
sunshine, humidity, temperature, all perfect. An old Sinatra CD is in the
player. The song - "It Could Happen to You." The vegetation along the road is lush, the earth having broken the
spell of a worrisome April drought. All windows are open; the air is crisp,
cool on my face.
Rolling through residential streets of Chatham, my cell phone rings. I have what is called a “Bluetooth” connection in my car. Like many high-tech terms, years went by before I learned what “Bluetooth” actually meant. Still not certain, but I’m guessing it means talk through car speakers because a dashboard display says Bluetooth whenever the phone rings in the car. So Bluetooth, “phone in car.” Got it.
The call is from my daughter. “Did you get any of my texts?” she says.
I remind Ashley that I’ve only recently abandoned my vow to make it through life without ever texting and so am not in the habit of looking for text messages. You know?
“I’m almost at your school,” I say.
“Johnny’s not here,” she says.
“Oh?”
“He went to Kyle's house," she says, "but that’s OK, because I have Eddie’s bike in my car and he wants it to ride to the pool. So you can take it back.”
“OK, great,” I say.
Ashley is waiting for me in the parking lot, standing next to the bike.
“Will this fit in your car?” she says.
I grab the bike, grunting as I hoist it up and into to my hatchback-like trunk, then shoving it, with some more effort, past the seat back, barely clearing the trunk's bottom lid. Did I hear a rip? Not sure.
Rolling through residential streets of Chatham, my cell phone rings. I have what is called a “Bluetooth” connection in my car. Like many high-tech terms, years went by before I learned what “Bluetooth” actually meant. Still not certain, but I’m guessing it means talk through car speakers because a dashboard display says Bluetooth whenever the phone rings in the car. So Bluetooth, “phone in car.” Got it.
The call is from my daughter. “Did you get any of my texts?” she says.
I remind Ashley that I’ve only recently abandoned my vow to make it through life without ever texting and so am not in the habit of looking for text messages. You know?
“I’m almost at your school,” I say.
“Johnny’s not here,” she says.
“Oh?”
“He went to Kyle's house," she says, "but that’s OK, because I have Eddie’s bike in my car and he wants it to ride to the pool. So you can take it back.”
“OK, great,” I say.
Ashley is waiting for me in the parking lot, standing next to the bike.
“Will this fit in your car?” she says.
I grab the bike, grunting as I hoist it up and into to my hatchback-like trunk, then shoving it, with some more effort, past the seat back, barely clearing the trunk's bottom lid. Did I hear a rip? Not sure.
Definitely tore some upholstery, I think.
"Is it in?" Ashley says.
“No problem,” I say.
With bike packed, I head back to Ashley’s home. Passing through the streets of Summit, again, a warm feeling comes over me. The small city, with people up and about on a beautiful day. Kids on the street corner carrying ice coffee cups, straws poking out of dome lids (ice cream sundae in a cup), a serious jogger woman on the shoulder ahead, seemingly pulled by a dog on a leash, teens on bikes they have outgrown, riding on sidewalks, two smiling grandparents, together pushing a triplet baby stroller.
Just saying ... really feeling good today.
At my daughter’s house son-in-law Tom is in the driveway. "Got Eddie's bike." I announce.
“Eddie doesn't need it; he already left for the pool,” Tom tells me.
“He did?”
“He couldn’t wait. So we found a spare bike at Grandma’s house. I drove over (ten minutes cross town) and got that one for him.”
“Wow,” I say, then add, “Whatever.” I'm thinking, that was a lot of effort just to get Eddie going to the pool a few minutes earlier.
Tom and I haul the, now unneeded, bike from my trunk.
Eddie is 11. The reason he could not wait, I now suspect, is that two weeks ago, according to his mom, Ed sent a text message to a girl in his class asking if she would be his girlfriend. She said, “Yes,” and so began their fifth grade courtship and, I might add, at least in my view, a bit of new urgency as it relates to some of Ed's summer activities.
The manner of children officially declaring affection has changed over the years. Today texting apparently does it. First, however, there is still that time honored school-days tradition, as follows: float the idea, not among the principals, but rather, among friends of principals. In other words, have Eddie’s friends ask Mary’s friends if Eddie were to ask Mary to be his girlfriend would Mary say yes.
If the answer is affirmative you pop the question - by texting of course.
As for the rest of the story, well …actually ... from my observation it seems that it's still the same old story – the fight for love and glory.
"Is it in?" Ashley says.
“No problem,” I say.
With bike packed, I head back to Ashley’s home. Passing through the streets of Summit, again, a warm feeling comes over me. The small city, with people up and about on a beautiful day. Kids on the street corner carrying ice coffee cups, straws poking out of dome lids (ice cream sundae in a cup), a serious jogger woman on the shoulder ahead, seemingly pulled by a dog on a leash, teens on bikes they have outgrown, riding on sidewalks, two smiling grandparents, together pushing a triplet baby stroller.
Just saying ... really feeling good today.
At my daughter’s house son-in-law Tom is in the driveway. "Got Eddie's bike." I announce.
“Eddie doesn't need it; he already left for the pool,” Tom tells me.
“He did?”
“He couldn’t wait. So we found a spare bike at Grandma’s house. I drove over (ten minutes cross town) and got that one for him.”
“Wow,” I say, then add, “Whatever.” I'm thinking, that was a lot of effort just to get Eddie going to the pool a few minutes earlier.
Tom and I haul the, now unneeded, bike from my trunk.
Eddie is 11. The reason he could not wait, I now suspect, is that two weeks ago, according to his mom, Ed sent a text message to a girl in his class asking if she would be his girlfriend. She said, “Yes,” and so began their fifth grade courtship and, I might add, at least in my view, a bit of new urgency as it relates to some of Ed's summer activities.
The manner of children officially declaring affection has changed over the years. Today texting apparently does it. First, however, there is still that time honored school-days tradition, as follows: float the idea, not among the principals, but rather, among friends of principals. In other words, have Eddie’s friends ask Mary’s friends if Eddie were to ask Mary to be his girlfriend would Mary say yes.
If the answer is affirmative you pop the question - by texting of course.
As for the rest of the story, well …actually ... from my observation it seems that it's still the same old story – the fight for love and glory.
