Descendant

The granddaughter has spent the third year of college in England.  Great Britain.  The United Kingdom.

Her plan is to spend a few weeks with her grandfather in Massachusetts,  as she returns to her college in Virginia, for her final undergraduate year.

I stand, awaiting her arrival at Logan Airport, Boston’s International Airport, near the exit from the arrival gate of Virgin Airlines, not knowing if this is an appropriate name, as clumps of Massachusetts State Police, armed with 9mm sub-machine guns, repeatedly circle me, scanning for threats.  In the arrival area? 

She comes from the arrival gate with a substantial backpack, on her back, dragging an even more substantial luggage piece.  She looks healthy and happy to see her grandfather.  We had last met four years ago when I accompanied her on her initial visit to her education institution in Virginia.

A few words about my granddaughter’s appearance.  She is 21 years of age.  Her mother, my daughter is tall, blond, blue eyed, and stacked.  Her father wasn’t quite as tall, born in Hawaii, descended from Chinese immigrants, and slim. 

Her appearance is reminiscent of actresses from the 1940’s who appeared with Alan Ladd, playing exotic Eurasian women, who, as I understand it, were all taller than Alan, as would be my granddaughter.  Her youthful and feminine skin has the texture of the petals of peonies.

Living as I do, somewhat removed from the main stream of American youth, her manner of dress surprised me.  Her navel, and a significant amount of the honey colored skin of her stomach north and south,  was  exposed.  Seen from the, excuse the term, rear, her southern exposure stopped about a millimeter short of being a plumber’s butt.  As for her top, blouse, cutoff shirt?  The plunging, scooped, exposing décolletage brought to mind all of the female police officials on current TV Crime Shows, leaning forward.  Sergeant Friday would have choked.

We had a meaningful couple of weeks together, and then I delivered her to the Amtrak station for her trip to Virginia.  As she leaned forward to plant a Grand daughterly kiss I my check, she said, “Grandfather Robert, please call mom and tell her that I’m on my way?” 

All of my grandchildren call me “Grandfather Robert”, because, early on, I let them know that if they called me gramps, or  grampy, or Poo Pa, I would hurt them.

So I call my daughter, who, incidentally is an Episcopal Deacon, in the San Francisco Bay Area, where did I go wrong, and I ask, “Why does your daughter dress like a whore?”

“They all do,” says the Reverend.
 

go to Old Tales 5
go to Old Tales 4
go to Old Tales 3
go to Old Tales 2
go to Old Tales 1