Granddaughter’s Laugh Concert

         Born in 1938 I am blessed with two young grandchildren, Naomie, 8,  and Naela, 5, who give me a second grandfatherhood. All grown up are the other five in their early or mid twenties, busy with their profession or schooling all over the country, some thousands of miles away, and surprised at my still being around, when they get birthday cards with a check enclosed, in both our names, the handiwork of their grandmother, my wife. With the youngest set we are physically near, just a few miles away from their house, because we have deliberately located near them, so we can be part of their childhood and impress on them some pleasant memory of us, thus achieving a kind of immortality, especially for me, mortified by their ardent hugging of their grandma and eager sharing of their triumphs and defeats of the day in contrast to their formal, even stiff politeness to me, the grandfather, their lovey-dovey Daddy’s father, though I try my damnedest to befriend them.

         So I have volunteered to drive them to school, quite a commitment in view of my partial disability: I can’t multitask while driving, like following GPS, and need to memorize the route by multiple drive-throughs, my wife helping with the directions, which is what I did with the 4 miles from my house in Norwood, NJ, to their house in Piermont, NY, then the 15 miles from there to the school, Green Meadow Waldorf in Chestnut Ridge, NY, altogether taking 30 minutes to maneuver through the narrow local roads and catapult into the Palisades Interstate Parkway and NY Thruway 287, both 80-plus mile speedways.

         This morning, while on 287 to Chestnut Ridge, Naela asked, “Do you want to hear a laugh concert?”

         “Sure,” I said warily.

         Right away she burst into a torrent of Hee Ho Hoo Ha Ah…

         “What do you think?” she asked, stopping to take a breath.

         “That’s fun,” I laughed, instantly becoming aware of the shabbiness of my own laughter in comparison. So, I had to add, “But nobody laughs the way you showed.”

         Ignoring, she went on with some more raucous varieties, until her sister distracted her and they fell to talking among themselves.

         Upon return home I was subjected to my wife’s usual inquisition on the drive.

         “Naela treated me to a laugh concert.”

         “Oh, that one. So did you join?”

         “I complimented her performance but told her that nobody laughed like that.”

         “You are hopeless,” she lamented, shaking her head. “Who needs a comment like that? You should have joined her as I did. She had that concert at school the day before and wanted to share it with me. So I contributed my own samples. It’s a concert, so there can be many different forms, exotic, even imaginary. You complain they don’t like you as much as me. They want a pal, not a sour puss critic.”

         So gone is my hope for immortality. Forgotten I will be the moment I depart.