For Family, for Kids, Forever
My sister gave me the idea. Take a grandchild on a trip, she said. Just the two of you. The ideal age is around twelve. You’re one-on-one, she said. You find out about each other. She has 14 grandchildren and has done at least eight of these trips. She knows what she’s talking about.
A few years ago, my 12-year-old grandson, Carl Gordon, and I boarded a Horizon Airlines flight from Redmond, Oregon, to Seattle, Washington. We each had our concerns. He could not remember flying and was worried. I wondered if we would run out of things to talk about in three days and nights. Carl and I lived 2,500 miles apart. Our time together was usually shared with family, neighbors, and playmates.
Ten minutes into the flight Carl was completely at ease, eagerly searching the ground for familiar landmarks and complimenting me on the quality of my camera as he snapped pictures of Mt. Adams. I enjoyed his constant commentary and decided that this was going to be a real voyage of discovery.
Twelve is young enough to find excitement in small things and old enough to be aware of relationships--to the world at large and grandmothers in particular. “You are a good driver,” Carl said as we navigated Seattle’s rush hour traffic in our rented car. How long has it been since anyone told me that? Heady stuff, compliments.
Our hotel was far north of Seattle, a fact I hadn’t realized when making the reservations. “Okay, Kid,” I said, “Find this hotel. What’s the address?” He, as navigator, held the tour book.
“Ninety-eight thousand oh three seven,” he replied as the good driver swished down the off ramp. I turned left and checked street numbers.
“We’re only at fourteen hundred,” I said, “It is going to be really far.” Like in the middle of Puget Sound, I thought.
“There it is!” he cried a block later. A classy last-minute maneuver landed us in the guest registration parking slot. While registering, I pulled out the tour book and began to point out to the clerk that their address was incorrect in their AAA listing. A glance determined that Carl had read me the zip code instead of the street address.
“A problem, madam?” asked the clerk.
“Oh. No. Nothing,” I replied.
When we reached our third floor room via glass elevator (“Wow, Grandma. This is neat.”), it was a bit stuffy, so I opened the sliding window. Carl, feeling giddy, said, “I like to air out my pillow.” He pulled it out of his bag and lobbed it at the windowsill.
“There’s no screen!” I yelped, making a lunge for it. I caught it just as it was beginning its descent to the parking lot. We were off to a great beginning. We couldn’t stop giggling at the image of his beloved little pillow landing on some unsuspecting hotel guest three floors below.
Children on Field Trips Discover the Joy of Simple Pleasures
Carl lives in La Pine, Oregon, a semi-rural area in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. His home fronts a lazy, swimable, floatable river. His family owns two horses and a pony. They have watercraft galore. But they do not have escalators, glass elevators--or elevators of any sort. They do not have rental cars, five story hotels, whirlpool spas, and freeways. I began to perceive that Carl was in a new and exciting world.
Suddenly I was in a new and exciting world too, seeing it all through his eyes. I had forgotten the joy of pushing elevator buttons, climbing steps on a moving escalator, slinking through a lobby wrapped in a towel, sneakers untied. He eagerly took on new responsibilities, also. In addition to being map-reader and direction-giver, Carl took charge of room keys and all elevator buttons.
One of my plans was to buy him a new “cool” pair of tennis shoes at a mall near our hotel. There were four anchor stores, each containing escalators. Forget the shoes. They were incidental to the joy of riding every escalator in every store. I could have saved $39.99.
Offer New Experiences, Fall Back on the Familiar
The Space Needle had the grand daddy of all glass elevators. Carl was edgy about it, but had obviously made up his mind to stop at nothing on this trip. We rose to the top, peered through the mists common to Seattle and made our descent. Someone in the elevator asked where Mt. Rainier was, and the chirpy operator said that it was to the south, visible 100 days a year. I did the math. One-third of the year. As we left the elevator Carl proudly told me that he had actually opened his eyes on the descent. Judging from his position in the elevator, I concluded he had a fine view of the backs of three Japanese tourists.
We took the monorail, dining on pizza and tempura in the mall at the end of the line. Carl did not have the tempura. His taste didn’t yet extend much beyond chicken strips and Mountain Dew. Before I discovered this I had taken him for ribs and seafood. Both restaurants offered chicken strips, fortunately. On our third and last night Carl said he would really like to go to MacDonald’s, so after debarking the Kensington ferry, we did that.
We walked twice through Air Force One at the Museum of Flight. The plane had been in service until two years previously. A docent gave us tidbits, such as the fact that Lyndon Johnson had pet doors installed between certain compartments for his beagles, Him and Her. Hillary Clinton was once locked in the bathroom and had to be taken out through a valet door. Carl liked the story a lot and repeated it often to anyone who cared to listen.
Take Time To Listen
Perhaps my biggest surprise was the lights-out conversations we had. As we settled into our beds, Carl began to talk. We covered a lot of ground during these dark hours. His budding maturity was evident in the fact that he actually asked questions about my life, and listened to the answers. And he was completely candid in revealing his thoughts to me. I felt great tenderness for this man child, for his purity and untarnished idealism.
He will be fine. Whatever he becomes, he will take his 12 year-old self with him. Our voyage of discovery convinced me that this self would steady him and help him keep his balance in the shark-infested teen years that lay ahead.
And thus the trip, which I had thought to be my gift to Carl, became Carl’s gift to me.
Clarice Thompson is a freelance writer and grandmother in Lansing, Michigan.
©2001 C. Thompson.