The horror of the first day at school (and we do that to five-year-olds). The extraordinary pleasure when a woman started, voluntarily, to use my surname instead of the one she was born with. The elation at the birth of a child, tinged with the shock at realising that the younger generation was now someone else’s. The pain of learning of my father’s death, a pain both for an irreparable loss but also for the departure of the figure that stood between me and the grave, leaving me directly exposed to my own mortality.
I negotiated another key moment just a couple of weeks ago, when for the first time I received an e-mail from my granddaughter Aya. It was a moment of great pleasure, so I replied at once. It was only when I’d finished that I realised I’d signed myself ‘Granddad’ completely naturally, without a second thought. I don’t know whether I’d unconsciously resisted being moved back a generation further, from parent to grandparent after the previous transition from child to parent, but in the last eight and a half years I don’t think I’d ever become completely reconciled to my grandfatherly role.
But it quickly became clear that I had now accepted it completely, during our recent visit to Aya and her family. I found myself reacting instinctively when called ‘Granddad’ and, more to the point, no longer thinking that ‘Daddy’ meant me.
More important still, I began to read John Masefield’s The Midnight Folk to her. There are a great many children’s books in English, many of them excellent. There’s no difficulty finding a book about pirates or magic, about smugglers or talking animals, about highwaymen or Arthurian knights. But The Midnight Folk has them all, woven into a story which sweeps you along in its breakneck exuberance.
Outstanding |
A new and powerful bond has been created. Between fellow fans of The Midnight Folk there can be no bad feeling. So as I fully accept, or resign myself, at last my status of grandfather, with all that implies of the wear and tear of life, along comes in compensation, a new tie of affection with my granddaughter.
Can’t be bad.
Thank you, John Masefield. And even more warmly, thank you, Aya.
2 comments:
Aw. Makes me wish I had some--grandchildren, that is.
I'm certainly beginning to understand the benefits...
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