Henrietta Hay's Column

Someone once commented that parenthood is the hardest job in the world that comes without an instruction manual. I think grand parenthood runs it a close second. You have not one generation to bridge, but two. On the other hand, there are those who believe that grandparents and grandchildren get along well because the common enemy, the kids' parents, unites them.

Some women were born to be grandmothers, rush into it with joy and even nag their kids who are too slow in producing children. Others are somewhat more cautious and while they love their grandkids dearly, give thanks that Mother Nature reserved parenthood for the young.

This philosophical discussion is brought on by a week I recently spent with my thirteen-year-old Texas grandson whom I see all too seldom. I learned a lot and so, I think, did he. Among the first things he learned was that when little old white-haired grandmothers in aprons who spend all their time over a stove concocting wonderful things for the kids to eat were passed out, he didn't get one. The one he got has dropped cooking as a major activity.

I worried a lot about that for a while, and then I remembered my own grandmother. She lived in Illinois and I did not see her often, but I remember how she looked, how she dressed, the things she liked to do and that she loved me. I do not remember anything about food. Doubtless she was a good cook, since her daughter certainly was, but that was not something that my young memory considered important enough to record. I trust that the same is true of my grandson.

Another thing he learned is that people in their seventies do not have the energy that people in their forties have. I suspect the tales his father has told him about my activities during his own youth have been embellished a bit, and that his Dad has frozen me into a time warp. In fact, said father admitted that he had been giving his son lessons in how to con me into doing things I thought I didn't want to do. The kid did not need the lessons.

He learned that in a city like Grand Junction, as opposed to a metropolis like Phoenix, people go out of their way to be friendly and helpful. He learned that it's kind of neat to be able to get anywhere you want to go in ten minutes. He learned that a picnic with friends is a picnic whether it takes place on the Monument or in a back yard. He learned that from Lands End you can see almost to California.

I learned some things too. I learned that any male person who is not wearing a black cap everywhere including to bed is probably over 16. I bought him a Colorado Rockies cap to replace the Giants one he arrived in. We picked the kind with the picture of the mountains and the words spelled out. I was afraid that people in Phoenix might think CR stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

I learned that movies and miniature golf are expensive. The original cost is not so great, but keeping teenagers' energy level up to par takes a lot of food, which is always conveniently located close by. I learned that a teen-ager can spend an entire hot afternoon in the blazing sun at the swimming pool and come out looking cool and relaxed and asking what's for dinner.

I found that he renewed the excitement and joy I felt most of the time when my own kids were teen-agers. Note: After fifty years I remember only the good stuff and, of course, I was exhausted when he left. George Will has just become a father again and he says it so well. "It is the thrill of being again buckled by love to all the coming astonishments - the first firefly, first ice cream, first dog, first friend, first baseball game - that keep adults connected, through wide-eyed children, to the world's eternal freshness."

I wanted to send him home with wonderful memories of his grandmother, but I don't have much control over what he will remember in the years to come. After all, the two best memories I have of my grandfather are that he always bought lots of fireworks on the 4th of July and he taught me how to spit watermelon seeds. Now that's what grandparents are for.