“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” Carl Sagan
This is a story I have been hoping I could write this whole year. Actually, it’s a story I have been waiting to tell for around twelve years. I am sure I’d never have had the audacity to take up writing if not for this hope I’ve been holding on to. It’s about a grandchild and his grandfather, praying for a link to take hold.
Becoming a grandparent is a most unusual state of being, one for which there is no preparation, not unlike shockingly stepping into the role of parenthood. Regardless of speculation and preparation, you can throw it all out the moment the clock of reality starts ticking.
The history between parent and child is forever colored, with the experiences and perceptions of the child frozen in time. They are as imperfect as life itself. It is difficult to shed the baggage of imperfection, our own first and our parents second. Removing the generation between first and third offers the opportunity for a clean connection between the beginning and the end, life’s semi-immaculate bookends.
I unconfidently launched myself into this writing business, because I needed an insurance policy, one that guaranteed my grandson would know I was here and lived my life. My own paternal grandparents were barely a story to be shared by their children, including my father, who died when I was nine. My maternal grandparents were immigrants from Russia and spoke only Yiddish, both dying when I was a kid. My mother, whose birthday is December 9th, died at 92, the year I moved to Kauai in 2003.
I’ve certainly had plenty of time to think about my history, as the years have all too quickly piled one on the other. However, I never gave much thought to my past, selfishly preoccupied with tomorrow and the day after. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want my own grandson to live in that absence. When you are truly old enough to really, really give a shit about who you are and how you got here, the people with some of those answers are often too far removed to be even a memory.
So, we get back to my grandparent business. Being told for years and years I should be writer only made me uncomfortable, a creative crown that kept falling off to the side, feeling profoundly unworthy to carry on this timeless craft. Love has the power to vanquish the demons of doubt. When you actually get to see your child’s child, it is simply something that can only be experienced. There are no words, the language of the heart is a faint whisper into the ear of your soul, only you can hear.
From the moment my grandson was born, I began wrestling with the my own history. I don’t think it is truly possible to have a targeted arsenal of questions until you begin to understand your own mortality, not as a concept, but as an inescapable reality. At 75, a chronological luxury I have been afforded, I wish I could speak with Ida, my mother, who brought me into this world and spent her entire life hoping for nothing, but the best for me and my brother. Well, I can’t.
Everything I have done to this point in relation to my grandson has been mistakenly predicated on the assumption he would never grow up, remaining a cute little boy forever. When I decided that I’d better get started writing my history for him, I never allowed for the possibility he might read it while I am still here. I considered it and the hundreds of stories on my blog as gifting him the legacy of a life lived. I thought the words would provide a permanence I couldn’t guarantee for myself. As a grandparent, it is a stretch to imagine this little kid actually becoming a full fledged, thinking and feeling human.
You always start out with Mom and Dad as the conduit to the little one. Considering he/she begins as a curled up ball of life, it’s not like your first thought is to sit down and have a solid, one-on-one conversation. You kind of get locked into that dynamic and considering my circumstance, flying in twice a year, it got frozen in my stunted level of expectation.
All of a sudden, something unbelievable happened a little over a month ago, life changing for me. I got a patch from the motorcycle group I have been riding with, The Sons of Kauai, since stepping foot on this island around seventeen years ago. I really didn’t feel like having it sewn on my rapidly disintegrating, black leather vest.
Right then, I decided I would mail it to my grandson and enclose a type-written letter, an absolute first for us. I wrote about how much riding with these people has meant to me, making me feel I belonged here and believe me, this island hands out no free passes. If she doesn’t feel you belong here, you will be continually reminded.
I was sort of hoping I’d hear from him, maybe during one of our Echo Show calls or during a phone conversation with his parents. Well, I’ll be damned, I got an email from him. It was beautiful and private. Here comes the crusher, he wanted to know if we could become pen pals. I didn’t start crying, I really started crying. It was a belly heaving, cotton in the throat, eye flooding, cry. I couldn’t believe it! When the grandson of this old guy, who loves to write, asks to become pen pals, game over! I am certain it was written with complete innocence, affection and sincerity, but there is no way he could possibly have known its impact on me.
It also keeps getting better. For years now, I have been sending him books, always from Amazon. It never dawned on me that the recipient has no idea who sent it. It is just a book from Amazon, unless you fill out something or other, which I never bothered with. The last book I sent was Carl Sagan’s Cosmic Connection. I figured whether or not it resonated with him at the moment, one night, he’d be looking up at the stars and remember this book that Grandpa Larry sent.
When I responded to his email, of course, I wrote it would be great to become pen pals. I did reference the Sagan book as well. Both my head and my heart exploded when he responded by mentioning a book he was interested in and he wanted to know what I thought of it.
The book is called, “See You in the Cosmos”, by Jack Cheng. The boy in this fantastically, written diary to any anonymous alien, has a dog, he named Carl Sagan. His namesake, created several Golden Records that were launched into space, with the intention of having them miraculously retrieved by beings from another galaxy. They represent the most imaginative, brilliantly creative, audio library of life on Earth. They have everything from whale sounds to Beethoven. I think when you spend your life looking into the heavens above like Sagan, God whispers in your ear, just like the language of the heart and you are touched by the fantastic.
I have spent my professional life in marketing and promotion and there are just things I take for granted. Of course, I contacted the author and he sent a lovely email to my grandson, because it’s just what I know to do.
This is what I want to leave you with. At my grandson’s suggestion, we are going to start a book club and our first selection is, “ See You in the Cosmos”. At this moment, I am not sure how we are going to organize The Feinstein Cosmos Book Club, because I am waiting for my grandson to propose the rules.
Getting to know each other was always a dream until now.