the only thing that mattered at all
the only thing that mattered at all
living at the speed of life
And just like that, you’re a grandparent.
The people my age, when I was that age—well, they were funny about it.
“You’re old now,” they said. Life is over.
It’s all downhill from here.
“meh”
That didn’t seem to matter at all.
I knew those people didn’t get it. Not yet. They couldn't.
They couldn’t get it because it hadn’t been given to them yet.
Given is what it is, too.
Given a gift.
A certain kind of gift.
A grandchild is a certain kind of gift. The best kind of gift.
And smart?
So fast they grow smart.
Smart that pulls you in and reminds you of an infant’s wonder and curiosity, the innocent mischief of toddlers, and the energetic but generally harmless arrogance of teens.
It’s fun to watch them grow, but it's better to be a part of it, so we made plans to visit.
It didn’t seem to matter that we’d be leaving in the wee hours of the morning or that we had a full day of travel ahead.
Neither Keylea nor I could convince the other that it was bedtime. Not yet.
So we packed some belongings, battened down the hatches, and kept ourselves busy in various ways.
There was nothing that needed doing. Not really.
Just burning off our nervous excitement.
It didn’t seem to matter that it was an early flight. The entire airport was booked with early flights and roared with frantic activity.
And it never seems to matter that even though I’ve done this before and know all the rules, I always give the TSA a reason to pull me over.
It’s always my fault. Guilty as charged.
I leave my phone in my pocket or a wad of tissue in my hand…always something suspicious enough to warrant the complete homeland security experience.
It didn’t seem to matter that we were flying against time, reliving each hour twice in a day.
That we had connecting flights and layovers, or that we couldn’t sit together, but were separated by the aisle.
Keylea and I were still as giddy as small children.
We landed dazed and tired under hazy mountain skies, surrounded and amazed by Califonia’s terrain.
Day one was easy, laid back, and chill. We toured bedrooms, met friends, played Zelda, watched Westerns, and ate enough snacks to ruin our dinners for at least the rest of the week.
The next day, we visited the mighty Pacific.
Sand beaches and surfers, the cliffs and the sun, and we had the time of our lives.
The day after, it was the mountains, a flat tire, and no spare, but that didn’t seem to matter at all.
We bought a new tire and wandered the town. We saw redwoods and sequoia and ate wild cherries from a tree.
The next day, LA and some serious driving. Can you believe this traffic and smog?
But our last day was the best day—better than all the rest.
The time zone didn’t matter; my body ignored it and woke me at four every day.
I put on my swim trunks and slipped into the pool.
Sat on the bottom step, water up to my chin, arms suspended weightless at my sides.
Perfect stillness, shattered like glass, with splashing and cannonball fun.
And then, as if on cue, stillness returned.
My grandchildren, floating on their backs, arms spread wide, staring into the early morning sky.
One little heel in each of Poppa’s hands.
And that was the only thing that mattered at all.
I love you guys! 💖
Stay safe out there. 🤗
—Paul