Dear
Boo and Bubble,
Just
in case I haven’t told you recently, let me reiterate how much I enjoy being a grandmother…especially
yours. Because of the freedom that one generation of separation brings, our
relationship is basically carefree and…for the most part…I have no other obligation
to it other than enjoyment. It’s a redo of being with your mom and Aunt Bee
when they were young…seeing through their eyes even the smallest of wonders all
over again as they discover them…but made even more delightful by being
unburdened with the responsibility of raising you.
Wouldn’t
it be nice if somehow life’s unfolding allowed us to keep the incredulity? To always
be amazed by the details of our surroundings. To let the brushes of our
imagination run freely over the canvas and create fantastic images of hope and
pleasure…and not get so settled in reality that we become immune to the enchanted
nature of life itself. Why can’t we thrill at the laughter of a child as they
blow the seeds of a thistle helter-skelter into the wind instead of worrying
about all the hideous weeds that will result?
I
was combing through the scrapbooks of your great, great, great, great
grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell earlier today and found a poem he had
clipped from a newspaper sometime in 1887. Although it is titled, the attribution
of authorship carries only initials and I am unable to find who that might be.
It seems to capture my speculation that if…maybe…we adults would just close our
eyes and let you tell us how things should be seen…we would be better off.
With a Child’s
Eyes
I
saw them pass along the thoroughfare,
A
blind old man with long hair, snowy white.
And
at his side a little maiden fair
With
golden locks and large eyes, blue and large.
The
old man listened to the prattling child,
Who
told of sights that filled her with surprise.
He
turned his head this way and that, and smiled
As
if he saw them with the maiden’s eyes.
She
told him of the wonders she could see
In
the tore windows where, in bright array,
Beautiful
dolls, a fairy company
Regaled
forth on all who passed along the way.
She
told how horses prancing through the streets
The
gorgeous equipages drew along,
From
which reclining on the cushioned seats,
Fair
women looked upon the passing throng.
And
then they turned their steps into a park,
And
sat upon a bench beneath the trees;
The
old man, though the world to him was dark,
Heard
the birds sing, the leaves stir in the breeze.
He
heard the waters from the fountain fall,
And
with the little maiden’s eyes, could see
The
green grass and the beds of flowers, the full
Trees
and the children sporting merrily.
The
joy of all the world he seemed to share,
And
love in others’ happiness the sense
Of
the affection, for he had no air
Of
sadness or of suffering intense.
Looking
upon his patient, smiling face,
I
said, “The blind who pass beneath the rod,
Groping
in darkness, seem to find a grace
That
others miss, and so come nearer to God.”
—JMH
in the New York Ledger
