Contributing writer
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, going to California for Thanksgiving. “Come to Colorado,” our cousins had said. “Or just come to Lawrence,” other family invited. “You could come to McPherson,” our friends added and then my sister said, “I think I’d just like to stay home and make cashew loaf and creamed peas.” Not me! I counted the cost, found an affordable ticket, and decided to fly to San Francisco.
My little grandson, who turned 3 in the spring, crowed to me on the phone, “Babop, we made you a bed!”
Their house is very small. There is only one regular bed and a baby bed; but in the “office,” the very room we’d painted “eggplant and lime” in April (and I’d slept on the couch), they made me a bed by stacking two twin mattresses on top of each other. It worked.
My flights were perfect from Wichita to San Francisco. The airlines were on time. Security was efficient and quick. The stewards were attentive. Two clicks later, I was riding an escalator down to collect my bag and there was my dear family. Dagfinnr grinned shyly and said, “We made you a bed!”
I’m not exactly sure what it meant to a 3-year-old to be making me a bed; but I’ve a hunch that he thought that meant I was staying — forever. He’d already planned my babysitting duties, how he and I would play when his mother would go to teach her fencing classes in the evening. He knew exactly how much fun we’d have and explained to his mother that he wouldn’t mind when she left for work.
It worked out pretty much as he’d planned. He’s an imaginative, precocious child (aren’t they all?) and I’d brought puppets that I’d rescued from the auction. We played puppets with endless dialogue and intriguing plots. We played cars by the hour and trains endlessly. He loves playing “emergency” with his fire truck and the hat they’d found at a Goodwill store. And then his mom had a good idea.
“Do you think you could make this fireman’s coat that Richard had, smaller?” Jana wanted to know.
I looked at the coat and groaned.
“Just take a big seam down the back, from the edge of the collar to the hem,” she suggested (not being a tailor), “and shorten the sleeves.”
She looked hopefully at me.
“And cut off a foot on the bottom,” she grinned.
Don’t all children think their parents can perform magic? Especially this time of year, when it seems we can wave our magic wand (or our credit card) and make wonderful things appear.
“You don’t even have a sewing machine,” I countered.
I bought her a sewing machine for Christmas. It took an hour of snipping, cutting, cropping, seaming, trial, and error and we had the cutest little fireman’s coat complete with reflector tape. We took a pocket from the area we’d shortened and made a “tool bag” and our little volunteer fireman was set to go with his hat on backwards and sounding like a siren.
“It’s a mergency” he called to me as we raced down the hall, sirens blaring. “Help me put out the fire, Babop.”
Over and over we played that scenario until I was exhausted — happily, merrily, contentedly, completely, exhausted.
For 10 days I didn’t think about coming back to spend another day in the country. I was blissfully gone from Kansas. On day 11, I started repacking my suitcase because tomorrow I’d be leaving. Time to re-enter the rural world. As I squeezed my clothes to accommodate goodies returning from California, I talked to Dagfinnr about going home. He solemnly listened and then looked up at me with his big brown eyes and whispered, “But we made you a BED!”
Oh, my! How to explain this leaving to a child. I’m not sure I understand it myself. I get tears in my eyes just writing about this. He was very quiet in his car seat as we drove to the airport. We played a children’s tape I’d brought with me and Jana and I sang along with the songs. I had a surprise in my pocket to ease the parting.
As they drove away, he bravely waved. Then leaned forward and said, “Mommy, we need to go home, pack our suitcase, and fly to Mamona Kansas, NOW!”